THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

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/ 


The   Last   Confessions 

of 

Marie    BashkirtsefF 


THK    LAST    I'HoK  K.K  \IM{    ill'    MAKIR    KASIIKIKTSKHK. 


I    Last  Confessions 


of 


I  Marie  BashkirtsefF 


and 


9   ^. 


Her  Correspondence  with 

Guy  de   Maupassant 

With  a  Foreword  by 

Jeannette  L.  Gilder 


« 


^  New  York 

^  Frederick   A.   Stokes   Company 

^  Publishers 


ifil 


Copyright,  1901. 
By  FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY. 


CT 


831 J  E^ 


List  of  Illustrations 

The  last  photograph  of  Marie  Bash- 

kirtsefF  ....       Frontispiece 


M.  Tony  Robert-Fleury  .  fac 

M.  Jules  Bastien-Lepage 

Marie     BashkirtsefF's    studio     hung 
with  her  own  paintings     . 

M.  Lefebvre  .... 

Marie  BashkirtsefF's  studio 

M.  Carolus  Duran 

Marie  BashkirtsefF's  last  picture 

Marie  BashkirtsefF's  studio — another 
view      ..... 


mg  page   2  6 
34 

40 

54 
78 
98 

102 

136 


48333^ 

UBSiRY 


FOREWORD. 


As  it  was  through  my  instrumentality 
that  Marie  Bashkirtseff  was  introduced  to 
the  American  public,  it  is  not,  perhaps,  un- 
natural that  I  should  be  asked  to  write  a 
few  words  of  introduction  to  this  volume 
of  her  "  Confessions." 

There  have  been  other  women  who  have 

written    as    intimately   of   themselves   as 

Marie    Bashkirtseff,    notably  Sonya  Kov- 

alevsky,  but  none  whose  confessions  have 

been  read  to  the  same  extent,  or  who  have 

made   the    same    impression.     It    is    not 

only  for  her  frankness  that  Marie  Bash- 

kirtseffs    name   has   become  a  household 

word,    but    for    the    circumstances    that 

surrounded  her  life.     In  her  short  story 
5 


FOEEWORD 


romance  and  pathos  were  equally  blended. 
The  story  of  her  precocity,  her  talents,  her 
early  death,  caught  the  public  attention 
and  touched  the  public  heart. 

The  first  English  edition  of  the  Journal 
of  thi^  young  artist  was  published  in  1889. 
I  asked  Mrs.  Serrano  to  make  this  transla- 
tion and,  with  some  difficulty,  induced 
Cassell  &  Company  to  publish  it.  The 
head  of  the  American  house,  to  whom  I 
took  the  translator's  manuscript,  was  very 
doubtful  of  the  book's  success,  but  I  was 
confident  of  it  and  he  yielded  to  my  per- 
suasion. When  the  sales  ran  up  to  a 
quarter  of  a  million  copies  within  a  few 
months,  there  was  one  prophet  who  was  not 
without  honour  in  her  own  country.  The 
newspapers,  the  reviews,  the  magazines,  all 
discussed  the  book  at  length.  No  writer 
considered  himself  too  great  a  man  to  dis- 
cuss this  remarkable  Russian  girl.  Glad- 
stone took  pages  of  the  Nineteenth  Century 
6 


FOKEWORD 


in  which  to  praise  the  Journal,  while 
writers  in  the  Century  Magazine  and  the 
Atlantic  hailed  it  as  something  unique  in 
literature. 

In  this  new  volume  of  Marie  Bashkirt- 
seff's  "  Confessions  "  there  is  no  falling  off 
in  interest.  The  entries  in  this  Journal 
have  all  of  her  characteristics.  Perhaps 
the  most  striking  pages  of  the  book  are 
those  devoted  to  the  letters  that  passed 
between  Marie  and  Guy  de  Maupassant. 
She  had  never  seen  the  novelist  nor  had  he 
ever  seen  her.  She  only  knew  him  by  his 
books  ;  a  knowledge,  one  would  think,  that 
scarcely  invited  the  confidence  of  a  young 
girl. 

This  young  girl,  however,  was  excep- 
tional. The  very  fact  that  Guy  de  Maupas- 
sant was  just  what  he  was  excited  her  inter- 
est, an  interest  altogether  intellectual.  She 
wanted  to  write  to  him  and  to  receive  his  let- 
ters, just  as  a  naturalist  wants  to  catch  a  new 
7 


FOREWORD 


and  strange  insect  in  liis  net.  She  felt 
a  scientific  kind  of  interest  in  this  new 
specimen.  Her  first  letter  to  him  was 
short,  but  it  must  have  piqued  his  curi- 
osity. "  I  only  know,"  she  wrote,  "  that  you 
are  young,  and  that  you  are  unmarried, 
two  essential  points.  But  I  warn  you 
that  I  am  charming  ;  this  sweet  thought 
will  encourage  you  to  reply."  Maupassant's 
reply  showed  that  he  wished  to  know 
more  of  his  fair  correspondent.  She  will 
tell  him  nothing.  So  he  tries  to  "  force 
her  hand  "  by  making  believe  that  he  thinks 
her  a  man  or  a  plain  old  woman.  She 
only  humors  the  guess  and  plays  with  him. 
"  You  may,"  he  writes,  "  be  a  young 
woman  of  literary  society,  and  hard  and  dry 
as  a  mattrass."  Again,  "  Are  you  worldly 
or  sentimental  ?  or  simply  romantic  ?  or, 
again,  merely  a  woman  who  is  bored  and 
wants  distraction  ?  "  She  only  chaffs  him 
in    her    reply.     What    Maupassant    says 


FOREWOKD 


about  himself  is  interesting,  and  un- 
doubtedly true  : — 

"  I  take  everything  with  indifference, 
and  I  pass  two-thirds  of  my  time  in  pro- 
found boredom.  I  occupy  the  third  third 
in  writing  lines  that  I  sell  as  dear  as  pos- 
sible, distressing  myself  at  being  obliged  to 
play  this  abominable  part  which  has  given 
me  the  honour  of  being  distinguished — 
morally — by  you." 

All  this  must  have  been  very  entertain- 
ing to  Marie.  But  what  is  more,  it  gave 
her  the  excitement  that  she  craved  and 
without  which  she  w'as  unhajDpy.  Of 
course  she  was  abnormal.  Neither  mind 
nor  body  were  in  a  natural  condition.  She 
could  not  have  lived.  You  feel  that  in 
her  first  letters.  Girls  such  as  she  was 
never  become  old  women.  If  she  had  not 
WTitten  about  herself  and  indited  epistles  to 
people  whom  she  had  never  seen,  she  would 

probablv  have  been  a  victim  of  morphine. 
9 


FOEEWOKD 


Such  a  nature  as  bers  was  bound  to  be  the 
slave  of  habit.  She  had  the  pen  habit, 
and  had  to  write  to  relieve  herself — in  her 
Journal,  in  letters  to  strangers,  it  mattered 
-little  where,  so  long  as  she  could  talk  about 
herself,  her  appearance,  her  emotions,  love 
—which  she  never  felt,— anything,  so  that 
she  might  be  always  in  the  glare  of  the  lime- 
light. 

Her  death  w^as  pathetic,  but  her  life  was 

pathos  itself. 

Jeaiststette  L.  Gilder. 


10 


INTRODUCTION 

If  the  cruel  hand  of  death  stayed  Marie 
Bashkirtseff's  advance  from  fame  to  great- 
ness, the  time  when  she  can  be  lightly  for- 
gotten is  not  yet.  History  may  only  know 
her  as  a  footnote  in  the  record  of  literature 
and  art,  but  for  us,  her  contemporaries,  the 
memory  of  this  pathetic  figure  will  be  cher- 
ished for  itself  until  the  generation  to 
which  we  belong,  and  of  which  she  was  a 
symptom,  in  its  strength  and  weakness, 
has  made  way  for  the  children  of  the  new 
century.  The  sensation  of  twelve  years 
ago,  when  the  first  diaries  were  published, 
can  hardly  be  repeated  ;  and  yet  the  unique 
interest  which  writers,  artists,  psychologists, 
at  least  one  great  statesman,  then  hastened 

to  acknowledge,  exists  unimpaired  in  the 
XX 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 

following  pages.  Nothing  had  been  seen 
like  these  self-revelations  before  ;  though 
every  one  knows  the  trick  of  realism  now 
nothing  has  been  seen  like  them  in  the 
interval.  Most  readers  were  a  little,  or 
more  than  a  little,  shocked  by  this  laying 
bare  of  a  girl's  heart.  "  I  tell  all,  yes,  all " 
— that  appeared  too  terrible  a  novelty  to 
be  quite  the  thing  in  respectable  society. 
That,  outraged  conventions  notwithstand- 
ing, the  singular  soul-history  took  the  world 
by  storm  has  happily  not  sufficed  to  evoke 
an  imitation  crop  of  naked  confidences. 
Marie  Bashkirtseff  has  found  no  imitators, 
in  the  main  because  such  a  show  of  devour- 
ing vanity  and  ambition  would  seem  revolt- 
ing in  any  grown  adult ;  and  this  particular 
conjunction  of  experience,  talent,  and  per- 
sistent energy  is  very  rare  indeed  among 
the  young.  It  was  death,  the  unanswerable 
fact,  that  added  the  final  seal  of  trao^ic 
truth  even  to  the  wildest  of  Marie's  pages. 


MARIE   BASIIKIRTSEFF 


Suppose  I  were  to  die  quite  suddenly.  .  .  . 
Soon  nothing  would  remain  of  me — nothing, 
nothing  !  It  is  this  which  has  always  terrified 
me.  To  live,  to  have  so  much  ambition,  to  suffer, 
weep,  struggle — and  then  oblivion  !  .  .  .  Oblivion 
.  .  .  as  if  I  had  never  been.  Should  I  not  live 
long  enough  to  become  famous,  this  Journal  will 
be  of  interest  to  naturalists  ;  for  the  life  of  a 
woman  must  always  be  curious,  told  thus  day  by 
day,  without  any  attempt  at  posing,  as  if  no  one 
in  the  world  would  ever  read  it,  yet  written  with 
the  intention  of  being  read  ;  for  I  feel  quite  sure 
the  reader  will  find  me  sympathetic' 

This  pitiful  plea  came  home  to  the  mind 
of  the  generous  reader,  as  the  later  passages 
of  the  present  diaries,  which  cover  three- 
quarters  of  the  last  year  of  her  life,  will  do. 

I  am  thinner  by  half.  ...  I  begin  to  have 
talent  and  I  see  myself  wither.  ...  Is  it  not 
this  terror  of  the  end,  when  we  are  no  more,  that 
urges  men  to  leave  something  behind  them  ? 

Four  months  later  the  flickering  light 
went   out.     Even   if  the   talent  were"  less 

1  Tlie  Journal  of  Marie  Bashkirtseff,  translated,  with 
Indroductiou,  by  Mathilde  Blind,  1889,  p.  1. 
13 


THE   LAST  CONFESSIONS   OF 

conspicuous,  one  would  reflect  that  few 
writers  care  to  give  their  life  in  proof  of 
their  sincerity.  And,  after  all,  the  world 
needs  and  values  sincerity  more  than  talent. 
AVithin  a  year,  w^hen  the  painter  would 
still  have  been  a  mere  girl  of  twenty-five, 
France  had  hung  one  of  her  pictures  among 
the  treasures  of  the  Luxembourg.  To  a 
much  larger,  a  world-wide,  circle  of  men 
and  women,  the  journals  came  to  justify 
the  prophecy  of  the  Russian  fortune-teller  : 
"Your  daughter  will  be  a  star."  It  was 
the  woman  rather  than  the  artist  who  ap- 
pealed to  Gladstone,  Lombroso,  Copp^e; 
and  it  is  the  woman  who  still  appeals  to 
us. 

And  in  particular  the  Russian  woman 
"  The  Slav  character  " — as  she  herself  said 
in  telling  the  story  of  an  old  governess — 
"  the  Slav  character,  inoculated  with  French 
civilisation  and    romantic   literature,    is   a 

curious  product."     We  all  know  more   to- 
14 


MAEIE   BASHKIRTSEFF 


day,  and  we  want  to  know  more  still,  of 
the  Slav  character.  Tolstoy,  Turgueneff, 
Stepniak,  Sonya  Kovalevsky,  Helena  Bla- 
vatsky,  Marie  Bashkirtseff — to  what  strange 
under-worlds  of  human  passion  these  names 
give  us  the  keys  !  That  the  evolution  of 
these  meteoric  Russians,  the  outer  influ- 
ences that  helped  to  mould  them,  are 
easily  understood  should  not  lead  to  their 
being  overlooked.  Like  those  others, 
Marie  Bashkirtseff  v/as  a  product  of  a 
thwarted  society.  We  recall  the  some- 
what similar  and  even  more  tragic  case  of 
Sonya  Kovalevsky,  who,  after  carrying  off, 
as  a  mathematician,  the  highest  European 
honours,  died  prematurely  of  overwork 
and  heart-hunger.  Eussia,  which  has 
given  birth  to  so  many  brilliant  women, 
cannot  yet  give  them  a  home ;  they  flash 
across  the  intellectual  horizon  and  go  out 
suddenly,  orphans  in  exile.     Marie  Bash- 

kirtseff  never  suffered  bodily  hunger,  but 
15 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 

she  never  enjoyed  the  spiritual  food  of  a 
normal,  stable  home  life.  Born  of  noble 
parentage,  near  Poltava  in  Little  Russia,  in 
the  winter  of  1860,  she  was  an  infant 
when  the  home  was  broken  up;  and  it 
was  not  till  she  was  sixteen  years  old  that 
her  parents  met  again.  In  the  meantime 
Mme.  Bashkirtseff,  with  her  boy  and  girl, 
her  parents,  a  sister,  Marie's  cousin  Dina 
(the  "  long-suffering  Cinderella  of  her  ca- 
prices" who  is  often  mentioned  in  the 
following  journal),  attended  by  a  little 
retinue  of  teachers  and  servants,  had 
wandered  over  half  of  Europe,  leaving 
Baden  on  the  outbreak  of  the  Franco-Ger- 
man war  for  Geneva,  and  moving  thence 
to  Nice.  Here  Marie  set  herself  seriously 
to  the  study  of  English,  Italian,  and  Ger- 
man, Latin  and  Greek,  drawing  and  music  ; 
here  also  (being  now  of  the  mature  age  of 
thirteen)  she  fell  desperately  in  love  with 

a  certain  outrageous  British  nobleman,  to 
16 


MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


whom,  however,  she  never  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  saying  so  much  as  "  Good  morn- 
ing." In  Rome  she  carried  on  a  more 
serious  flirtation  with  the  nephew  of  a 
great  Cardinal,  until  the  intervention  of 
the  Holy  Father  himself  was  invoked,  and 
the  offending  Pietro  was  packed  off  to  a 
convent.  In  Florence,  Rome,  and  Berlin, 
and  later  in  Madrid,  Marie's  art  studies  * 
made  rapid  progress.  After  a  brief  visit 
to  Russia  and  her  father,  on  a  fruitless 
mission  of  conciliation,  she  returned  to 
France  to  make  Paris  her  home  and  art 
her  absolute  mistress  (a  beautiful  voice 
had  already  given  way  to  chronic  laryn 
gitis).  The  Barbazon  influence  was  in  full 
flood ;  Marie  Bashkirtseft'  brought  the 
genius  of  Russia  to  this  mature  revolt 
against  dead  classicism  ;  and  not  only  the 
realism  but  the  fiery  energy  of  the  Slavic 
character.  Her  heart-hunger,  the  alter- 
nations of  passion  and  vain  ambition,  with 
2  17 


THE  LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 

inertia  and  hopelessness,  tlie  conflict  of 
high  ideals  and  petty  ambitions,  she  re- 
vealed in  the  cold  pages  of  her  "brain's 
novel,"  as  she  called  her  journal,  and  there 
only.  That  she  was  killing  herself  in  the 
race  for  fame — working  at  the  studio 
morning  and  afternoon,  writing  and  model- 
ling at  night  at  home,  and  in  the  intervals 
rushing  about  to  social  functions — could 
not  be  concealed  from  sympathetic  eyes. 
Perhaps  the  best  portrait  of  her  at  this 
period  is  contained  in  the  following  lines 
by  a  fellow-student,  Marion  Hepworth 
Dixon.^ 

This  musician — for  Marie  Bashkirtseff  could 
hold  a  room  spellbound  with  her  phrasing  of 
Chopin — this  musician,  sculptor,  painter,  writer, 
had  none  of  the  airs  and  graces  of  a  merely  clever 
woman.  A  simplicity,  mingled  with  a  quaint  and 
delightful  wliimsicality,  were  markedly  hers.  .  .  . 
She  was  womanish   in  her  wit,   her  refinement, 

1  "  A  Personal  Reminiscence,"  Fortnightly  Revieio, 
February,  1890. 

18 


MARIE   BASHKIRTSEFF 


her  coquetry  ;  womauisli  in  her  pruderies,  in  her 
audacities,  her  cliatter,  her  silences,  in  her  gaiety, 
and  more  than  all  in  her  still  more  abundant  sad- 
ness. Above  the  height  of  the  average  French- 
woman, Marie  BashkirtsefiE  bore  that  something 
ethereal  and  spiritual  in  her  face  which  seems 
the  birthright  of  those  who  die  young.  An  ex- 
quisitely moulded  figure,  the  arm  and  hand  of  a 
statue,  the  foot  of  a  Spaniard,  the  blonde  hair 
and  penetrating  eye  of  the  Northerner,  all  these 
things  did  not  constitute  in  Marie  Bashkirtseff 
what  is  called  in  every-day  parlance  "  a  pretty 
woman."  That  she  had  a  bewitching  pallor — an 
opaqueness  of  skin-tone  peculiar  to  the  North,  a 
grace,  a  distinction,  a  fascination,  a  power  which 
was  felt  in  her  very  gentleness,  all  these  things 
must  be  admitted  by  those  who  had  the  privilege 
of  knowing  her.  ...  In  her  very  sociability 
there  was  a  kind  of  aloofness  of  detachment 
which  had  little  to  do  with  the  malady  she  so 
constantly  deplored.  At  the  age  of  twenty  Marie 
Bashkirtseff  was  already  slightly  deaf.  And  this 
was  her  crowning  grief.  .  .  .  With  a  fine  scorn, 
in  real  life,  for  bourgeois  pretensions,  middle- 
class  prejudices,  she  could  be  kind,  helpful,  al- 
most tender  with  the  ignorant  and  ill-advised. 
I  have  seen  her  aiding  the  least  promising  new- 
comer in  the  atelier  Julien  (the  visiting  master, 
the  Adonis  of  the  studio,  M.  Tony  Robert  Fleury 
— already  a  middle-aged  Adonis  in  1880 — was 
19 


THE  LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 

sometimes  unnecessarily  severe  with  beginners), 
giving  her  time  when  she  had  already  begun  to 
guess  that  her  working  days  were  numbered. 
And  how  she  worked  !  To  labour  was  a  passion 
with  her  ;  to  toil  at  whatever  siie  took  in  hand  a 
kind  of  ferocious  joy.  .  .  .  Closed  windows,  a 
fierce  charcoal  stove,  the  indescribable  smell  of 
oil  paints,  turpentine,  rags,  and  at  luncheon  time 
of  scraps  of  eatables,  could  hardly  have  conduced 
to  the  health  of  the  strongest  ;  yet  I  cannot  re- 
call one  word  of  complaint  that  ever  fell  from 
Marie  Bashkirtseff. 

Readers  of  the  correspondence  with  Guy 
de  Maupassant,  now  first  fully  published, 
will  not  fail  to  distinguish  clearly  between 
the  precocious  but  pure-minded,  if  morbid, 
Russian  and  the  really  decadent  French- 
man, the  feverishly  active,  ambitious,  and 
adventurous  girl,  and  the  man  for  whom 
"  everything  is  divided  into  boredom,  farce, 
and  misery,"  everything  is  sunk  in  an  utter 
weariness  which  she  cannot  understand. 
She  is  indeed  in  search  of  new  sensations  ; 

yet  she  can  write — 

20 


MARIE   BASHKIRTSEFF 


Art  just  consists  in  making  us  swallow  the 
commonplace  by  charming  us  eternally,  as  Nature 
does  with  her  everlasting  sun,  and  her  olden 
earth,  and  her  men  built  all  on  the  same  pattern. 

To  make  clear  this  distinction  between 
the  abnormal  and  the  degenerate  is  per- 
haps the  most  valuable  point,  as  the  pretty 
play  of  wit  in  the  letters  is  the  most  in- 
teresting thing,  in  this  little  volume. 

Miss  Hepworth  Dixon's  touching  tribute 
serves  also  to  correct  a  false  impression 
that  might  be  gained  from  a  glance  at  the 
diaries  and  letters.  Marie  Bashkirtseft'  was 
no  mere  society  idler  pining  for  the  excite- 
ment of  a  love  affair.  She  was  a  devoted 
artist  who  sacrificed  everything,  though 
not  without  many  a  qualm,  to  her  art.  In 
these  pages  we  see  the  three-cornered 
struggle,  now  against  love,  now  against 
ambition,  now  against  surrounding  philis- 
tinism.     The  battle  is  at  its  height ;  it  is 

the  last  year  of  a  doomed  life.     For  five 
21 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS   OF 

years  she  has  been  labouring  with  her 
brushes,  at  first  under  the  Julian  and  the 
Fleury  who  are,  here  again,  the  subjects  of 
her  tortured  admiration,  finding  her  mate- 
rial mainly  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  but  also 
drawing  upon  her  knowledge  of  the  classics 
and  her  memories  of  Italy  and  Spain. 
"  The  Umbrella  "  (1882), "  Jean  et  Jacques  " 
and  "Le  Meeting"  (1883)  and  "Spring" 
(1884)  revealed  an  impressionist  gift  of 
high  quality ;  and  her  landscape  work 
showed  as  much  imagination  and  poetic 
sense  as  her  portraits  did  ability  of  catch- 
ing the  intangible  expressions  of  human 
character.  "  But,"  as  Miss  Mathilde  Blind 
also  testified,  "  we  do  not  realise  Marie 
Bashkirtseff's  astonishing  energy,  power  of 
work,  and  devotion  to  her  art  till  we  have 
seen  the  quantity  of  sketches,  designs,  and 
studies  from  life  which  she  managed  to 
produce    between    the   ages   of   seventeen 

and  twenty-four."     These   were   carefully 
22 


MAEIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


stored  up  by  Mme.  Baslikirtseft',  in  the 
house  where  her  daughter  spent  the  two  or 
three  last  years  of  her  life  "  in  a  kind  of 
artistic  delirium,  laying  in  a  picture,  mod- 
elling in  wet  clay,  improvising  wondrous 
tunes,  studying  Homer,  Livy,  and  Dante, 
stretching  the  hours  into  days  by  the  num- 
ber of  sensations  she  managed  to  cram 
them  with.  In  the  following  pages  we 
get  glimpses  of  this  varied  but  always 
feverish  labour.  It  is,  however,  the  woman 
rather  than  the  artist  who  seizes  and  holds 
us — the  woman  writhing  in  the  grip  of 
elemental  desires,  even  at  the  very  door  of 
death  ;  the  woman  demanding  as  the  proper 
food  of  genius  "  all  music,  incense,  flowers  "  ; 
praying  God  to  make  her  "a  veritable 
star  "  ;  shivering  at  the  thought  of  ridicule  ; 
comparing  herself  in  her  superstitions  with 
Napoleon  and  Caesar,  in  her  varied  talent 
with  the  Queen  of   Roumania  ;   jealously 

raving  against   a  rival  student  ;  the  silly 
23 


THE  LAST   CO^s^FESSIOXS   OF 


girl  who  sentimentalises  over  a  grand  duke, 
and  complains  that  she  gets  no  credit  for 
certain  dress  fashions  she  has  suggested. 

Could  such   an   abnormal   beine   love  ^ 
Miss  Blind  has   given  us  a  striking  little 
picture  which  we  may  be  allowed  to  quote 
here  :  "  Marie  was  much  occupied  with  her 
appearance,  fond  of   dress,  and  had  more 
than  the  ordinary  share  of  a  woman's  love 
of  attracting  admiration.     She  had  a  finely 
developed  figure  of  middle  height,  hair  of 
a  golden  red,  the  brilliant  com]:»lexion  that 
usually   accompanies   a  tendency    to  con- 
sumption, and  a  face  which,  without  being 
regularly  handsome,  captivated  you  by  the 
fire  and    energy  of  its  expression.       Pho- 
tography could  never  do  her  justice.     Her 
real  spell  lay  in  the  intense  vitality  which 
shone  out  of  her  deep  grey  eyes."     It  is 
certain  she  could  not  love  for  love's  sake 
alone.     "  I  adore  no  one,"  she  says  in  this 

journal,  "  but  the  lamp  of  my  imagination 
24 


MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


is  lit/'  In  these  pages,  again,  the  names 
of  Bastien-Lepage  and  of  Marie  Bashkirt- 
seff  are  often  brought  together.  At  first 
it  is  a  case  of  "  to-day  he  pleases  me,  .  .  . 
to-morrow  it  has  passed  "  ;  and  "  if  Bastien- 
Lepage  marries,  it  will  only  be  a  disappoint- 
ment of  the  imagination."  But  later,  after 
the  return  of  Bastien-Lepage  from  Algiers 
in  the  summer  of  1884,  a  warmer  comrade- 
ship grew  up  and  brightened  the  last  days 
of  the  two  stricken  artists.  In  mid-October 
neither  of  them  could  walk  ;  but  Bastien 
was  carried  by  his  brother  to  the  room 
where  she  lay  on  a  sofa,  dressed — fond 
creature  ! — in  white  silk  and  fine  lace. 
"  Ah  !  if  I  could  paint  !  "  cried  her  strick- 
en friend  as  he  looked  at  her. 

On  31st  October  1884  Marie  died  ;  and 
Bastien-Lepage  survived  scarcely  six  weeks 
longer. 


a  H.  FERRIS. 


25 


THE  DIARY 

Gth  October  1883. 

I  HAVE  just  written  this  to  Tony  Robert- 
Fleury : — 

"  Dear  Master — 1  oiiglit  to  be  only  too 

happy  about  what  you  have  said  of  the 

picture,  and  yet  I  am  ahnost  dissatisfied ! 

But  pray  do  not  take  what  I  am  going  to 

tell  you  for  an  affectation  of  modesty.     I 

am  absolutely  sincere ;  and  I  write  you  so 

that  you  may  know  that  I  deserve  absolute 

frankness,  that  I  judge  myself  sanely,  and 

that  I  can  hear  cruel  truths,  because  I  have 

the  conviction  that  one  day  I  shall  be  able 

to  hear  agreeable  ones.     For  the  rest  your 

delicacy,   the  delicacy  of  the   truly    great 

artist,    will    make     you     understand    my 

scruples  when  I  find   myself  face  to  face 
26 


"  M.    'i'(JNV    KOBKRT-FI^K.rKV." 


MAEIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


with  my  self-respect.  Should  I  esteem  my- 
self more  ?  Yes,  if  your  judgment  is 
strictly  just.  You  said  'Good,'  and  for 
certain  parts  '  Very  good.'  Those  are  very 
big  words.  Good  by  comparison  with 
whom?  Good  with  regard  to  what  cir- 
cumstance ?  I  do  not  want  a  relative 
'good';  that  means  nothing.  If  you 
saw  this  picture  at  the  Salon  as  the  work 
of  an  unknown  youth,  would  you  only  say 
that  it  is  passable  ? 

"As  to  this  picture,  perhaps  you  will 
not  retract,  but  in  future  do  not  be  benevo- 
lent !  I  beg  it  of  your  friendship  for  your 
very  proud  pupil. 

"  Marie  Bashkietseff." 

What  will  Fleury  say  ?  If  my  picture 
is  good  I  shall  thank  God  for  it.  The 
blessing  of  the  old  Archimandrite  of  St. 
Petersburg,  who  has  sent  me  an  image  of 

the  Virgin,  has  brought   me    good   luck. 

27 


THE  LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 

Robert-Fleury  and  others  might  say  "  It  is 
perfect,"  only  that  would  not  make  me 
happy,  for  I  do  not  find  that  this  is  my 
utmost. 

Sunday,  Ith  October  1883. 

I  have  seen  the  new  moon  with  the  left 
eye,  and  am  sad  !  In  truth.  Miss,  how  dare 
you  confess  to  such  dull  superstitions  ?  Why 
dull  ?  Napoleon  and  Caesar  were  supersti- 
tious, only  to  mention  the  two  most  illus- 
trious.    St.  A and  the  princess  dined 

here,  and  B ,^  who  posed  all  day. 

Monday.  8th  October  1883. 

Julian  finds  the  portrait  of  B very 

clever.  "  It  is  very  good  for  every  one 
else,  but  since  your  ideal  is  Bastien -Lepage, 
think  of  the  2:)erfection  which  he  gives  to  a 
piece ;  strain  all  your  faculties,  and  get  an 
extraordinary  result ;  otherwise  it  would  be 
a  pity.     Let  it  rest,  and  next  spring  give 

1  Prince  Bojidar  Karageorgevitoh  of  Servia. 
28 


MAKIE  BASHKIKTSEFF 


yourself  the  pleasure  of  executing  certain 
parts  in  such  a  fashion  that  there  shall  be 
nothing  more  to  say."  He  is  nearly  as 
exacting  as  I  am,  this  Julian ! 

Robert-Fleury  has  come  ;  B remains, 

and  we  all  dine  together.  Julian  tells  me 
that  the  grandfather  of  Bastien-Lepage  has 
just  died.  It  is  for  the  portrait  of  this 
grandfather  that  he  obtained  his  medal  in 
1874,  a  dehut  which  made  a  stir. 

Tlmrsday,  llth  October  1883. 

Yesterday  we  went  to  see  the  G s, 

who  want   me    to    marry  A .      They 

have  lost  the  hope  of  getting  me  to  make 
the  happiness  of  a  charming  little  French- 
man, then  go  for  a  foreign  prince. 

"  But  marry,  become  a  lover,  and  you 
will  paint  no  more." 

The    Queen   of    Roumania    paints   and 

writes. 

I  even  told  them  details  of  the  works  of 
29 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS   OF 

the  Queen  :  it  was  the  only  way  of  making 

them    believe    in    the    painter's    devotion. 

They  are  men   of  the  world.     Ah  !  what 

misery  !     Am  I,  then,  so  much  superior  to 

all  these  people  ?     No  matter.     They  worry 

me  with  these  marriages.    If  Bastien-Lepage 

marries,  it  will  only  be  a  discqyj^ointment 

of  the  imagination.     Why  does  one  please 

rather   those  to  whom  one    is    indifferent 

than  those  one  loves  ?     Because  one  laughs 

at  the  indift'erents,  while  with  the  others 

one  becomes  timid,  one  loses  that  assured 

air   which  is  as  the   health  and  youth  of 

one's     being.     Then,    one     pleases    nearly 

always  by  accident,   when    one    does   not 

think  of  it. 

I  am  (j[uite  determined  to  be  very  firm, 

not  to  go    on    any   longer   as    at   present. 

Very  often  it  happens  to  me  not  to  utter, 

from  delicacy,  a  reply  that  comes  to    my 

lips.     It  seems  to  me,    except  at   least  in 

urgent  cases,  that  one  ought  always  to  avoid 
30 


MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


everything  that  may  appear  the  least  bit 
disagreeable,  and  ev^eo  to  contradict  posi- 
tively appears  to  me  a  lack  of  politeness — 
of  that  rare  politeness  which  sometimes 
leads  us  to  let  lame  things  pass  and  not 
refute  them.  These  adorable  sentiments 
would  pass  if  there  were  at  least  thirty  of 
us  to  practise  them  ;  but,  among  the  people 
I  see,  few  think  as  I  do.  If  I  were  exqui- 
sitely kind  I  should  pass  for  a  person  one 
could  sit  upon. 

For  some  time  I  have  seen  that  it  is  ab- 
solutely necessary  to  speak  of  what  one 
knows,  to  quote  authors,  to  make  incur- 
sions into  the  domain  of  science.  To  be  to 
a  certain  extent  instructed  seemed  to  me  so 
natural  that  I  should  not  speak  of  it. 

Why  have  I  written  all  this  ? 

13th  and  Uth  October  1883. 

Busy  day ;  leave  for  Jouy  at  7  o'clock 

in   the  morning.     Walk   in  the  wood,  re- 
31 


THE  LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 

touch  the  portrait  of  Louis,  conversation, 
croquet.  The  forest  of  Meudon  is  ravish- 
ing under  this  sun,  that  gilds  it  through 
the  mist.     Nature  is  indeed  beautiful. 

I  come  in  to  dress ;  there  is  a  little 
dinner  this  evening.  I  amuse  myself  in 
my  hair-dressing.  Instead  of  disordering 
it  I  leave  the  forehead  frankly  uncovered. 
Amid  all  these  carefully  dressed  heads,  it 
is  a  charming  novelty.  The  hair  twisted 
on  top  of  the  head  and  spreading  naturally 
and  this  magnificent  brow,  of  which  I  did 
not  suspect  either  the  beauty  or  the  noble- 
ness, change  me  altogether.  I  become  of 
an  imposing  candour  ;  it  seems  to  me  that 
I  am  pontifical,  or  that  I  am  descending 
from  a  throne.  This  gives  a  sweet  gentle- 
ness to  the  bearing,  an  air  of  calm  and 
strength.  And  this  forehead,  always 
hidden,  is  of  an  infantine  purity;  I  am 
fifteen  years  old. 

This  evening,  when  there  was  no  one  in- 
32 


MAEIE   BASHKIRTSEFF 


teresting  to  me,  I  was  of  a  radiant  fresh- 
ness. Still  I  know  by  experience  that  one 
is  pretty  tvlien  one  tvwhes  it.  I  lower  my- 
self to  play  cards  ;  they  are  lucky.     Mme. 

G played  bezique  with  S G , 

piquet  with  the  princess  ;  the  others  bored 
themselves  as  they  could.  As  for  me  I 
went  from  group  to  group.  ...  It  is  neces- 
sary that  I  should  have  a  name  to  grind  in 
this  immense  mill,  my  head. 

Tuesday,  IQth  October  1888. 
I  have  just  re-read  inadvertently  some 
pages  of  my  life  in  1880,  and  I  find  myself 
much  happier  now.  It  is  quite  astonishing, 
by  comparison,  and  even  without  compar- 
ison. I  have  no  care ;  I  am  tranquil. 
Then  how  I  wept  daily,  how  I  worried  my- 
self !  and  ^vith  good  reason.  Now  I  see  all 
that  from  a  higher  place,  much  higher  ;  our 
situation  is  better.     Oh,  yes.     I  am  well 

now,  and  I  thank  God  for  it. 
3  33 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIOXS   OF 

Wednesdaij,  11  th  October  1883. 

To-day  I  commence  the  model  of  my 
statue.  I  work  now  like  a  primitive  ;  I  am 
forced  to  invent  the  means.  What  I  fear 
is  to  fall  ill — I  cannot  breathe ;  I  do  not 
feel  strong,  and  I  am  growing  thin.  At 
last  this  terrible  malady  is  certain.  /  mn 
consnm20tive.  I  would  that  all  this  were 
imaginary,  but,  alas  !  It  would  be  neces- 
sary to  go  south.  .  .  .  Ah,  how  worrying 
it  all  is ! 

I  have  passed  two  frightful  hours  with- 
out any  fresh  cause.  Any  one  condemned 
to  death  would  feel  this.  They  had  only 
lit  one  lamp  in  the  salon.  Mamma  worked, 
and  Dina  yawned,  while  my  aunt  from  time 
to  time  crossed  the  room.  These  three 
women  exchanged  some  words  in  a  low 
voice.  It  was  quite  simple,  and  it  seemed 
to  me  lugubrious.  I  feel  myself  in  the 
depth  of  Russia,  in  the  country,  far  from 
Paris,  as  if  some  horrible  misfortune  were 
34 


M.    JUI.RS    BASTIEN-I.EPAGE. 


MARIE   BASIIKIETSEFF 


coming.  I  read  Avith  a  very  natural  air, 
and  thought  of  death.  Ah,  well !  you  A\'i]l 
never  catch  me  complaining  of  these  psy- 
chological sadnesses,  or  even  of  other  mis- 
fortunes. 

At  last !  I  await  something  fearful,  1 
know  not  what.  Anything  may  happen. 
I  am  going  to  pray. 

20^/1  October  1883. 

If  I  were  sixteen  years  old  they  might 
say  this  was  the  first  melancholy  of  a  girl. 
It  is  not  that.  I  am  as  if  my  lot  had  been 
thrown. 

And,  in  this  connection,  pray,  dear  and 
amiable  Frenchmen,  never  treat  me  as 
Oriental,  superstitious,  Slav,  and  all  that 
you  generally  say  when  strangers  are  not 
like  yourselves.  If  I  sperdv  of  "  bad  luck  '"' 
and  other  fantasies,  it  is  because  that  ap- 
pears to  me  picturesque  or  droll.     And  I 

might  be  born  at  Montmartre,  and  I  might 
35 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 


call  myself  Marie  Diirand  or  Irma  Pochard, 
and  it  would  be  the  same  thing. 

It  is  possible  my  French  is  not  French ; 
if  I  took  heed  I  could  write  very  correctly ; 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  certain  incoherent 
thoughts  require  a  perfect  artlessness  of 
expression. 

But  I  am  far  from  my  black  sadness. 
...  It  is  evident  that  if  I  were  cured  I 
should  be  mad  with  joy.  But  it  is  not 
from  being  ill  that  I  suffer ;  I  am  resigned 
to  this  misfortune.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  God  !  Be- 
cause I  am  resigned,  because  I  accept  life 
with  this  immense  black  burden,  do  not 
aggravate  it  !     Be  pitiful  ! 

2ith  October  1S83. 

All    is   imagination   witli   me.      I    see 

Bastien-Lepage,  and  I  believe  he  pleases  me 

(on  the  last  visit)  ;   on  the  morrow  it  has 

passed.     A  few  days  after  I  say  to  myself : 

"  Hold  !     And  Bastien-Lepage,  I  think  no 

more  of  him,  then  ?  "     No  more  at  all ! 
36 


MAKIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


But  if  I  thought  no  more  of  him,  of 
whom  should  I  think?  For,  I  tell  you 
this,  I  must  always  have  something,  no 
matter  what,  for  the  stories  that  I  tell  my- 
self in  a  whisper  to  send  myself  to  sleep  at 
night.  It  has  no  other  importance,  and  is 
not  like  some  one  who  is  obtrusive — like 
real,  love,  in  fine. 

4f7i  November  1883. 

There  is  in  Paris  a  string  of  Grand  Dukes 
and  Grand  Duchesses.  There  were  six  of 
them  at  this  morning's  mass.  The  Grand 
Dukes  Vladimir,  Alexis,  Serge,  and  Paul — if 
w^ith  these  four  superb  brothers  our  Em- 
peror does  not  know  how  to  triumph  over 
Nihilism  !  ...  It  is  Alexis,  above  all,  who  is 
handsome.  Tall,  strong,  harmonious,  with 
flaxen  hair,  the  eyes  of  an  honest  man,  a 
beautiful  light  beard  naturally  curled,  and 
in  all  his  figure  something  easy,  tranquil, 
and  sympathetic.     I  should  say  honest  onan 

if    that    accorded    with   the   figure   of   a 
37 


THE  LAST   CONFESSIOXS   OF 

Homeric  hero  and  an  absolutely  imperial 
air. 

Leavius;  the   church    we    called    at  tlie 

G s.     "With    G it    is    funny  ;    it 

seems  to  me  that  I  please  him.  .  .  .  Per- 
haps he  loves  me  in  his  fashion  ?  Charm- 
ino-  bov,  but  what  should  I  do  with  him  ? 
And  I  do  not  love  him,  and  I  have  not 
even  the  desire  to  embrace  him.  One 
shuts  one's  eyes  and  asks  oneself :  "  Let 
me  see,  shall  I  embrace  M.  So-and-So  ? " 
Ah,  well  !  he  says  nothing  to  me — neither 
he  nor  the  others. 

However,  I  should  like  to  be  very 
coquettish  with  him.  But  I  am  too  loyal. 
I  am  persuaded  that  it  would  be  easy  for 
me  to  draw  his  love,  and  tlien  ?  Tliat 
would  give  him  too  nuieli  disappointment. 

To  return  to  the  Grand  Duke.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  he  looked  at  me.  Oh  ! 
don't  exclaim  !  I  have  re-read  ra}-  horo- 
scope by  Edmond.  It  promises  me  a  thon- 
38 


MAEIE   BASllKIKTSEFF 


sand  torments,  but  whatever  I  do,  whatever 
happens,  though  there  be  desperate  mo- 
ments, I  shall  succeed  at  length. 

5th  November  1883. 

Ever  since  I  dressed  myself  in  Paris  I 
have  struggled  against  the  stupid  and  un- 
couth fashions.  Five  years  ago  I  asked  for 
draperies  and  corsages  gathered  [froiicS'S], 
open  at  the  neck  [cUhrailUs]^  mythological, 
or  Louis  XV.,  antique  skirts,  Jewish  robes. 
I  passed  as  very  eccentric,  but,  thanks  to 
working  for  hours  at  Laferriere's,  Worth's, 
Doucet's,  the  fashion  has  taken ;  for  two 
years  one  has  seen  only  negligee  draperies, 
frills,  fichus,  sashes.  The  fashions  most 
run  after  at  Doucet's  are  of  my  invention. 
And  none  of  them  bear  my  name ! 

Tuesday,  fStli  November  1883. 

Emile  Bastien  has  just  told  me  that  his 

brother  is  sick  at  not  having  painted  enough 

this  year.     Like  me,  then.     I  showed  him 
39 


THE   LAST   CO^^FESSIONS   OF 


my  urchins/  and  I  dare  scarcely  write 
what  he  said  of  it.  It  is  a  medal  for 
certain.  Many  artists  in  great  positions 
and  in  the  first  rank  would  not  do  as  much. 
It  will  never  be  suspected  that  it  is  the 
work  of  a  girl ;  it  is  that  of  some  one  who 
thinks^  who  observes,  who  loves  nature.  .  .  . 
He  did  not  expect  as  much. 

"  But  take  care  ;  you  are  going  to  j)ass  a 
critical  moment,  you  will  be  in  a  dangerous 
position.  This  picture  will  have  a  great 
success.  You  will  have  your  head  turned. 
That  will  be  a  pity." 

1  "  A  really  fine  pictui-e,  '  Le  Meeting,'"  says  Miss 
Blind,  "  was  begun  in  April  1883.  The  title  was  a 
stroke  of  wit  wlien  applied  to  half  a  dozen  lads  discuss- 
ing the  use  to  which  a  piece  of  string  is  to  be  applied 
with  the  excitement  of  politicians  over  a  question  of 
State.  ...  A  set  of  ugly,  unwashed,  badly  clothed 
ragamuffins.  Yet  how  interesting,  how  full  of  life  and 
character  they  are  !  Tliough  grey  and  sombre  in  colour, 
this  picture  is  harmonious,  nay,  even  brilliant,  in  tone. 
A  memorable  performance  for  a  girl  of  twenty  two, 
who  had  only  started  in  her  artistic  career  five  years 
previously."  It  was  exhibited  in  the  Salon  of  1884,  and 
attracted  wide  attention. 

4:0 


MARIK   BASHKIRTSKFF'S   STUDIO   HlXCi    WITH    HKR   OWN    I'AINTINGS. 


MAEIE  BASHKIIITSEFF 

At  that  I  burst  out  laughing,  saying  that 
ray  ambition  is  such  that  I  should  want, 
to  be  intoxicated,  things  quite  too  enormous. 

Friday,  16f/i  November. 

I  am  at  Jouy,  staying  with  Marshal  Can- 
robert  to  do  landscape.  And  it  rains,  and 
it  is  so  cold  that  I  sat  with  Claire  huddled 
over  the  fire,  after  having  tried  to  get  out. 

Now,  I  have  here  a  study  on  Chopin, 
Liszt,  Paganini — artists  with  hands  kissed 
by  duchesses,  grand  seigneurs,  artist-gods  ! 
Wagner  was  one  of  them.  Then,  my  little 
one,  you  are  sensible  only  of  these  mundane, 
noisy,  and  outward  glories  ?  No !  But 
I  demand  that  genius  should  be  accom- 
panied by  them.  Genius  ought  to  enjoy 
all  music,  all  incense,  all  flowers.  Life, 
enriched  with  so  much  adoration,  takes  in 
my  eyes  its  true  aspect. 

Ah  !  my  God  !     Let  me  be  independent, 

let  me  work,  make  of  me  a  veritable  star  ? 
41 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIONS    OF 


Tuesday,  20th  November  1883. 

I  am  going  to  see  this  great  canary  that 
is  offered  to  me.  It  bores  me,  this  aurea 
mediocritas.  He  is  as  good  as  possible,  in 
fact  the  best  of  his  kind  ;  he  has  even  some 
heart,  I  believe.  In  fact  .  .  .  But  that  is 
not  for  me.     And  I  add  :  "  Unfortunately." 

Oh  !  to  be  stupid  !  To  be  beautiful  and 
stupid  !  That  is  what  I  \vould  wish  for  my 
daughter — beautiful  and  stupid,  and  with 
some  principles,  so  as  not  to  be  lost. 

I  should  like  to  know  whether  this 
Journal  gives  an  idea  of  a  really  superior 
creature,  who  assumes  in  the  world  an 
amiable  and  patronising  air  and  suffers  the 
fooleries  which  she  is  obliged  to  listen  to. 

?  ?  ? 

I  seek  a  comparison  between  the  men 

who  do  not   exist   and   the  others.     Two 

bottles  similar  to   the  eye,  one  holds  them 

in  the  palm  of  the  hand  ;  the  one  is  heavy 

and  the  other  light,  empty.     It  is  the  sur- 
43 


MARIE   BASIIKIRTSEFF 


prise   wliicli  the  hand,  not  expecting   the 
difference  of  weight,  experiences. 

26^/i  November  1883. 
You  do  not  know  one  thing!  I  am 
sensible  of  beginning  to  take  m3'self  seri- 
ously, and  my  conduct  is  like  that  of  one 
who  has  genius.  I  am  artlessly  proud,  and 
calm  as  power,  and  indifferent  as  a  superior 
spirit.  I  speak  to  people  with  a  tranquil 
air,  and  seem  to  say  :  "  If  you  wish  to  come, 
come  .  .  .  not  too  near  ! "...  As  for  me, 
my  preoccupations  keep  me  on  the  heights. 
...  I  mock  myself,  at  bottom,  you  know. 
Only,  I  make  pretence  of  believing  that  it 
has  happened.  Sometimes  I  feel  myself 
living  as  I  picture  men  of  genius  living. 

Wednesday,  28th  November. 
Julian  says  that  Breslau,^  who  called  to 

1  "  One    of  her  fellow-stuclents.  the   most  gifted  of 
them,  a  young  Swiss  lady  called  Breslau,  who,  living 
plainly  and  laboriously  in  true  art  student  fashion,  ap- 
43 


THE  LAST  COlv^FESSIOXS   OF 

see  him,  spoke  to  him  of  me.  AYhat  care 
I  shall  take  with  this  picture  !  Art  and 
glory !  To  be  famous  !  .  .  .  No  logic  of 
events,  no  preparation,  nothing  could  blunt 
the  stroke  of  mad  joy  if  I  triumph — greatly. 
To  triumph  on  the  grand  scale :  do  not 
suppose  I  dream  of  it  next  year,  or  even 
the  next,  but  later ;  it  would  be  so  mad- 
dening: that  I  do  not  want  to  think  of  it. 
It  is  impossible  ;  it  would  be  too  much. 
And  then  ...  I  should  be  my  own  Jules 
Bastien-Lepage. 

Sunday,  2nd  December  1883. 

Mme.  Bertaux  came  on  Thursday,  and 
this  afternoon  I  go  to  the  meeting  of  the 
Women  Painters  and  Sculptors — it  is 
about  our  approaching  Exhibition. 

peared  to  her  rival  more  fortunate  in  being  wholly  free 
from  worldly  distractions.  This  promising  artist,  who 
had  begun  some  years  earlier  than  Marie,  was  a  thorn 
in  her  side,  for  she  continually  tested  herself  by  the 
attainments  of  the  former." — Mathilde  Blind. 
U 


MAKIE   BASriKIKTSEFF 

I  am  reading  Stendhal's  Amour.  There 
are  things  in  it  so  true  as  to  frighten  one. 
The  chapter  on  "  Infatuation "  well  por- 
trays my  impressions.  He  writes  there  of 
"  the  too  ardent  soul,"  or  ardent  to  excess, 
loving  on  trust,  so  to  speak,  which  throws 
itself  upon  objects  instead  of  awaiting 
them.  "  They  see  things  not  as  they  are, 
but  as  they  have  made  them,  and,  enjoying 
themselves  under  the  guise  of  such  object, 
they  believe  they  are  enjoying  the  object. 
But  one  fine  day  they  grow  tired  of  pay- 
ing all  the  expenses;  they  discover  that 
the  adored  object  does  not  return  the  ball ; 
the  infatuation  collapses,  and  the  rebuff 
which  self-love  experiences  makes  them 
unjust  to  the  over-esteemed  object." 

As  for  him,  however,  I  am  not  in  love 
with  him — I  feel  it  is  not  yet  that.  "  If 
you  spend  yourself  in  words,  in  pleasan- 
tries, in  enthusiasm  for  J and  R ," 

says  the  judicious  architect,  "you  will  do 
45 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIOXS   OF 


wrong  to  your  art."  O,  great  architect ! 
adept  in  tlie  first  of  arts,  you  are  right. 
As  I  present  to  you  Anatole  and  Orestes 
as  side-dishes,  and  they  occupy  me  only  in 
my  leisure,  it  is  thus  that  it  should  be 
among  busy  people.  They  say  Michael 
Angelo  never  loved.  Ah,  well !  I  under- 
stand that !  And  if  I  never  have  really 
encouraging  success  I  shall  be  capable  of 
loving  only  my  art. 

Tuesday,  4th  December  1883. 

Things  don't  progress  as  I  should  like ; 
all  day  I  have  stayed  in  the  gas  and  have 
not  got  out.  That  gives  me  an  air  as  con- 
centrated, as  disagreeable,  as  Bastien-Le- 
page,  and  I  am  tickled  by  it  as  before  I 
was  tickled  to  hold  a  skirt  like  Breslau. 

It  is  not  the  disagreeable  but  the  indif- 
ferent air,  be  it  said.  One  is  not  interested 
in  what  people  say ;  one  looks  upon  them 
46 


MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


as  mere   objects,  one  is  up  above ;  that  is 
not  popular. 

8t7i  December  1883. 

I  must  note  my  work  against  the  time 
when  I  reproach  myself  with  doing  noth- 
ing. 

Yes,  I  believe  he  ridicules  my  music. 
I  am  very  sentimental  at  bottom,  and  every 
moment  I  wound  all  sentimental  natures 
by  my  philosophic  and  mocking  airs.  I 
rail  at  everybody  and  myself.  But  the 
idea  that  any  one  can  ridicule  me  !  !  !  even 
sweetly  .  .  .  hon-ible  !  !  horrible !  ! 

I  shall  perhaps  never  see  him  again,  but 
these  reflections  are  applicable  to  another. 

He  who  is  called  J for  the  moment  is 

the  lie  of  woman,  the  he  whom  one  awaits. 

He  is  called  P ,  he  was  called  J , 

he  will  be  called  X or  Y .     It  is 

a  formula  to  briefly  sum  up  a  thousand 
aspirations. 

47 


THE  LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 


Monday,  10th  December  1883. 

I  feel  that  I  have  taken  such  flights 
towards  the  great  things  that  my  feet  no 
longer  touch  earth.  What  dominates  is 
the  fear  of  not  having  time  to  do  every- 
thing. It  is  a  fatiguing  condition,  perhaps, 
but  one  is  happy. 

I  shall  not  live  long :  you  know  the  chil- 
dren who  have  too  much  spirits.  And 
then,  humbug  apart,  I  believe  the  candle  is 
cut  in  four,  and  burns  at  every  end.  It  is 
not  that  I  boast  of  it.  .  .  .  Leonardo  da 
Vinci  did  everything,  and  did  nothing 
very  loell.  Michael  Angelo — but  Michael 
Augelo,  when  he  had  to  paint,  did  no 
sculpture  for  thirteen  3'ears.  I  invoke  the 
great  names.  Do  not  laugh,  I  know  I  am 
nothing;  only  when  one  cites  ]\Iichael 
Angelo  or  Leonardo  the  argument  is  unan- 
swerable. 


48 


MARIE   BASHKIRTSEFF 


Wednesday,  19th  December  1883. 

When  one  really  works  and  is  devoured 
by  ambition,  one  is  no  longer  good  for  any- 
thing ;  everything  disappears,  the  preoccu- 
pation is  so  great,  so  continual,  so  intense. 
Then  artists  should  never  be  lovers  ?  I  do 
not  say  that ;  an  artist  who  has  won  his 
place  can  pay  for  that  luxury,  and  while 
he  pays  his  work  will  be  stopped,  or  very 
nearly. 

Saturday,  22nd  Deceiriber  1883. 

I  have  made  Julian  come  for  my  statue, 
which  is  finished  as  a  sketch.  He  is  en- 
tranced, and  says,  "Very  good,  exquisite, 
charming,  captivating,"  which  means  that 
I  no  longer  esteem  Julian. 

As  for  my  great  landscape,  the  head  of 

Armandine,  the  little  girl,  is  quite  good. 

He  says,  "  that  was  at  first  much  better, 

then  very  good,  and  we  are  approaching 

the  moment  when  it  will  be  quite  good." 
4  49 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 

And  thou  art  not  mad  with  joy  ?  No. 
Wliy  ?  Because  it  is  not  my  opinion,  be. 
cause  I  am  not  myself  very  well  content,  I 
wish  to  do  better.  It  is  not  the  scruple  of 
the  artist  of  genius.  It  is  ...  I  know 
not  what. 


23rd  December  1883. 

Happiness,  see  you,  lies  in  a  kind  of 
moral  myopia,  and  not  in  that  refinement 
of  taste  which  we  give  ourselves  so  much 
trouble  to  acquire,  and  which  is  innate. 
One  suffers  in  a  thousand  ways  unknown 
to  the  vulgar.  It  is  like  a  man  whose  eye 
is  fastened  to  a  microscope :  the  unhappy 
being  could  not  drink  nor  eat  nor  love  any 
one. 

The  faults  of  taste  and  tact,  the  stupid 

conversations,  the  richly   decorated  salons, 

the   lamentable  pictures,   all  this  offends, 

bores,  tires,  and,  above  all,  saddens  one  ; 
60 


MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


from  seeing  repugnant  and  irritating  ob- 
jects one  acquires  a  kind  of  sad  and  re- 
signed indifference. 


26th  December  1883. 

The  Slav  race  lacks  one  knows  not  what. 
The  salons  hold  people  of  all  nationalities ; 
they  have  all  their  postures,  but  .  .  .  how 
should  I  put  it  ?  They  have  them  only  in 
fugitive  fashion.  They  are  stupid  and 
witty,  refined  and  vulgar,  indeed  one  does 
not  know  truly  how  to  define  them.  And 
I !  Evidently  I  believe  I  have  all  merits. 
How,  then,  to  explain  the  frequent  discon- 
tents I  cause  myself  ?  I  explain  them  by 
saying  that  I  have  all  the  merits,  but  that 
I  do  not  know  how  to  make  use  of  them. 
It  is  like  my  talent.  I  combine  all,  but 
that  does  not  make  the  way  clear.  Go  ! 
bamboozle  yourself,  my  little  one ;  that  is 

to  poach  on  someone  else's  preserves. 
61 


THE   LAST   COXFESSIOXS   OF 


Sunday,  Z()th  Decetnber. 

Emile  Bastien  has  come ;  he  has  returned 
from  Damvilliers,  where  Jules  will  remain 
till  February.  I  only  love  my  glory.  Oh, 
yes !  Lord  my  God.  Let  us  concentrate. 
I  have  lost  three  or  five  days.  It  is  a  cause 
of  fearful  torments. 

Monday,  7th  January  1884. 

Portrait  of  Dina.^  At  three  o'clock 
Marechale  de  Caurobert  came  to  take  us, 
Claire  and  me,  to  Boulanger's.  This  old 
school  is  horrified  by  '*  the  indecent  ex- 
hibition of  Manet."  "It  is  revolting. 
What  are  we  coming  to?"  I  support  her 
opinion  to  such  an  extent  that  Claire  goes 
into  the  corners  of  the  studio  not  to  be 
caught  bursting  out  laughing. 

It  seems  to  me  that  all  is  finished,  that 

^  Her  cousin.     This  pastel  is  hung   in  the  Luxem- 
bourg. 

62 


MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 

no  one  will  love  me  any  more.  .  .  .  And, 
for  the  rest,  I  am  going  to  die. 


Tuesday,  8th  January. 

They  have  mounted  my  "  Nausicaa," 
and  the  imbecile  of  a  workman  has  made 
it  too  big.  However,  I  do  not  complain ; 
only  it  is  tiring.  Yet,  if  I  were  like  those 
devotees  who  offer  their  torments  to  God 
that  He  may  recompense  them  !  It  would 
be  simpler  not  to  trouble  any  one.  Our 
ideas  are  not  very  catholic  on  this  point ; 
it  seems  that  that  is  called  being  a  spirit- 
ualist. ...  Go  for  a  good  spiritualist ! 


Wednesday,  dth  January. 

I   am  tempted  to  give  thanks  to  God 

that  I  have  repainted  the  cap  on  the  left  in 

the  picture,  and  it  looks  to  me  very  good.     I 

have  a  nature  so  diverse  and  so  droll  that  I 
53 


THE  LAST   CO^^FESSIONS   OF 

might  be  one  of  the  happiest  creatures  in  the 
universe  if  ...  I  really  meant  to  be. 


Saturday,  '\.2th  January. 

Marechale  Canrobert  comes  to  take  us, 
Claire  and  me,  and  we  go  to  Lefebvre's 
and  Tony  Eobert-Fleury's. 

I  ouofht    to   confess  that  I  did  not  do 

enough   justice   to    Lefebvre's   talent.      I 

have    seen     in    his    place    things    of    an 

ideal   form.     Exactitude,    firmness,    grace, 

are   pushed   to   the   utmost.      I   like   this 

drawing  better  than  that  of  Ingres ;  there 

are  in   Lefebvre   delicacies  of  line   which 

literally  enchant  the  eye.     And  nothing  is 

nebulous,    undecided;     an     unerring    and 

ravishing  precision.     I  believe  no  one  does 

the  nude  like  him.     It  is  not  fine,  broad 

painting — granted  ;  yet  it   has  refinement 

and    exquisite  delicacy,  and  at   the   same 

time   great  power.     Llis  portraits  are  ad- 
54 


M.    I,EFEBVRK 


MAKIE   BASHKIKTSEFF 


mirable,  althongli  lacking  brilliance  and 
perhaps  more,  but  the  figure  is  so  true  that 
it  makes  one  forget  everything  else  .  .  . 
almost. 

At  the  beginning  Lefebvre  did  not  rec- 
ognise me ;  on  learning  that  it  was  I  he 
changed  completely,  becoming  very  amiable 
and  thanking  me  for  the  honour  that  I  did 
him  in  calling,  adding  that  he  was  particu- 
larly pleased  to  see  me.  He  w^ill  come  to 
my  studio  on  Sunday  next. 

This  evening  at  dinner,  every  one  quite 
familiar.  I  was  in  white  for  our^  New 
Year,  and  was  very  taking. 

I  start  the  year  passably  and  even  well. 
I  only  expected  artistic  encouragement, 
and  to-night  there  are  none  but  friends. 

Friday,  ISth  January. 

I  am  in  a  mood  for  weeping  to-day.     To 

^  The  Russian. 
65 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIOIS'S   OF 

the  tlioiiglit  of  seeing  my  yesterday's  paint- 
ing again  is  joined  the  terror  of  finding  it 
bad,  and  I  weep  .  .  .  real  tears.  What 
would  you  have  ?  I  am  as  enthusiastic  as 
a  nineteen-year-old  student  in  Germany. 
And  in  the  abstract  world,  in  the  domain 
of  art,  of  thought,  of  ideas — ah,  well !  I 
have  not  the  happiness  of  knowing  those 
who  busy  themselves  with  these  fantastic 
domains.  I  know  men  of  the  world  and 
three  artists,  all  told. 

I  have  recommenced  a  sketch  of  women. 
Everything  is  in  the  charm  that  I  shall 
know  how  (?)  to  give  to  the  atmosphere. 
Yes,  it  must  be  evening,  that  fugitive  hour 
when  the  crescent  moon  seems  quite  pale. 
This  on  a  large  scale.  I  shall  never  know 
(how  to  do  it). 

Bastien-Lepage  had  to  make  fifty  studies 

to  catch  this  effect.     Ah,  well !  I  will  do 

fifty-five,  and  it  will  need  them,  too.     Ah, 

that  is  not  a  lifetime  ! 
56 


MARIE  BASHKIETSEFF 


Monday,  28th  Jamiary. 

At  five  o'clock  I  try  a  new  model  for 
Naiisicaa.  And  in  the  evening  I  am  writ- 
ing— what  ?  Ah  !  I  do  not  know.  I  have 
not  yet  found  the  cast.  .  .  .  Only  what  is 
incontestable  is  that  it  is  more  natural  for 
me  to  write  than  to  paint. 

The  true  painter  draws,  sketches,  com- 
poses almost  without  knowing  it.  I,  also, 
drew,  but  not  too  much,  with  this  idea,  "  I 
am  gifted  for  painting,  and  some  fine  day  I 
shall  do  it."  Meanwhile  I  have  masses  of 
literary  sketches,  like  the  portfolio  of  a 
painter  who  knows  nothing,  but  has  the 
calling.  One  cannot  do  so  many  things 
.  .  .  but  if  ...  to  paint  while  it  is  day- 
light, model  till  dinner-time,  and  write 
afterwards. 

And  to  live  ? 

To  live  ?     When  T  have  talent.     And  if 

I  die  before  ?     I  shall  regret  nothing.    Dear 

67 


THE   LAST   CO^^FESSIOXS   OF 

angel  !  I  am  admirable,  and  I  adore  myself. 
It  is  because  I  have  worked  well  to-day,  and 
I  have  also  tried  some  sublime  dresses,  sub- 
lime. .  .  . 

For,  what  does  one  need  ?  In  default 
of  having  lived  everytliiug,  one  must  feel 
vividly,  and  live  altogether  in  imagination. 

It  is  so  much  the  more  so  that  I  have 
passed  twenty  years,  and  at  this  age  one 
may  even  have  visions.  .  .  .  But  I  have 
not  the  time,  and  after  having  remained  for 
several  hours  standing,  with  arms  in  the  air, 
to  mould  the  clay,  one  has  only  one  desire, 
to  sleep  and  begin  again  to-morrow. 

I  am  very  happy. 


Tixesday,  2Qth  January. 

I  have  been  to  see  Munkaczy's  "  Christ 

on  the  Cross."     The  house   of  the  happy 

Munkaczy  is  a  veritable  marvel.     As  for  the 

picture  .  .  .  Christ  between  the  two  thieves, 
58 


MAKIE  BASHKIKTSEFF 


many  people  around,  a  black  sky,  the  figures 
stand  out  against  the  light.  Very  fine 
colour,  movement,  expressions,  physiog- 
nomies, garments,  superb  tones — it  is  very 
grandly  painted. 

There  is  in  the  gallery  at  Madrid  a  Christ 
on  the  cross,  a  Christ  quite  alone,  by  Velas- 
quez which  produces  so  poignant  an  effect 
that  one  cannot  look  at  it  for  long. 

Munkaczy's  picture  is  much  admired ; 
the  Jewish  garments,  with  such  beautiful 
tones,  are  dazzling.  .  .  .  Women  weep  at 
the  foot  of  the  Cross;  but  in  my  opin- 
ion .  .  .  Nevertheless  I  shall  wait  a  few 
days  to  judge.  It  did  not  seem  to  me  forc- 
ible enough  ;  that  is  it  perhaps. 

This  picture,  with  something  more,  would 
make  one  shudder.  As  it  is,  I  admire  it 
and  ask  myself  why  1  am  not  moved. 

Wednesday,  30^7i  January  1884. 

Hardly  anything    done.     Tried  dresses. 
59 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 

We  have  Claire,  Villevieille,  the  priest,  the 
princess,  and  Gailhard  to  dinner.  Gailhard 
and  I  speak  of  serious  things,  the  others 
listen,  the  priest  occasionally  joins  in  the 
conversation  .  .  .  politics.  Tonkin  and 
Ferry,  politics,  and  psychological  researches. 
It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  been  very  witty, 
leading  with  long  phrases  up  to  an  unexpect- 
ed climax  in  a  very  calm  voice.  He  takes 
me  seriously,  the  Radical  husband  of  the 

Countess   de   Z .     This  with   the    air 

of  surprising  me  that  1  am  taken  seri- 
ously. .  .  .     Insolent ! 


Friday,  \st  February. 

I  work  at  the  picture  out  of  doors ;  then 

we  call  on   the    Canroberts  and  Princess 

Jeanne     Bonaparte.     AVe    find   only    her 

mother,  who  is  still  beautiful  at  fifty-two, 

with  long  supple  white   hands.     Tell  me 

the  breed  from  such  liands  !     This  evening, 
60 


MARIE   BASIIKIRTSEFF 


glazing  at  the  water-colourists ;    enormous 
crowds  ;  few  acquaintances  ;  tired. 


Saturday,  2nd  February. 

Bojidar  Karageorgevitch  sits.  Princess 
Jeanne  Bonaparte  comes ;  I  receive  her  in 
the  studio ;  then  I  go  down — it  is  Mamma's 
Saturday.  There  was,  the  only  pretty  one, 
little  Deschanel  of  the  College  de  France. 
He  writes  in  the  Dehats^  and  imitates  the 
Delaunays  in  amateur  plays.  Very  exqui- 
site, and  very  sympathetic ;  a  good  boy.^ .  .  . 

1 ' '  The  correct  Paul  Deschanel,"  as  she  calls  him  on  a 
later  page,  has  been  for  some  years  President  of  the 
French  Chamber.  Speaking  of  his  re-election  to  that 
office  in  January  last,  the  Paris  correspondent  of  the 
Daily  News  said  : — 

"  As  a  man  cut  out  for  society,  M.  Deschanel  is  fond, 
to  quote  the  poet  Moore,  of  '  the  bowers  where  pleasure 
lies  carelessly  smiling  at  ease.'  Indeed  there  is  a  good 
deal  in  him  of  the  poet  Moore.  He  is  an  anacreontic, 
literary,  is  said  to  have  written  the  most  exquisitely 
turned  love  letters,  and  not  for  novels  either,  and  is  a 
devoted  son.  M.  Desclianel  was  singled  out  by  the 
late  Felix  Faure  as  the  Deputy  best  suited  to  represent 
61 


THE  LAST  COIS^FESSIONS   OF 

At  all  events,  I  am  in  good  hiimonr,  a  rare 
thing.  It  seems  to  me  that  my  painting  is 
good  ;  the  time  passes  quickly. 

I  write  in  bed.  To-morrow  is  Sunday ; 
I  am  going  to  church,  so  it  is  useless  to  go 
to  sleep  early.  But  I  am  perhaps  mad,  for 
I  have  just  been  weeping  over  the  shepherds 
of  Bethlehem,  and  I  shall  not  sleep  at  all. 

Observe  the  evening,  the  air  of  evening, 
the  atmosphere  which  envelops  objects ;  a 
calm  picture  ;  and  these  worthy  men  walk- 
ing, full  of  joy,  guided  by  a  Star  that 
sparkles  in  a  sky  of  beautiful  blue ;  not  too 
blue,  for  it  is  not  quite  night. 

Ah  well !  but  I  adore  it  myself  !  Neither 
Jeanne  d'Arc,  nor  anything  on  earth,  is 
comparable  with  the  divine  Shepherds.     I 


the  Chamber  at  the  fetes  that  were  to  have  been  given 
at  the  Elj'see  if  the  Emperor  and  Empress  of  Russia 
visited  tlie  Exliibition.  .  .  .  The  new  French  term  'un 
arriviste 'is  liberally  applied  to  him  by  liis  enemies. 
No  doubt  his  agreeable  manners  contributed  to  his  suc- 
cess." 

62 


MARIE   BASHKIRTSEFF 


have  not  been  so  mad  except  for  my  Holy 
Women.  Oh  !  but  I  shall  do  them  this 
summer,  in  June,  in  Italy.  Oh  !  for  sure, 
if  God  permits  it. 

I  am  an  artist  in  the  full  acceptation  of 
the  word ;  every  artist  is  poet  or  vision- 
ary. 

Cazin  has  succeeded  with  some  little 
night  landscapes  in  this  style  ;  very  beauti- 
ful. Am  I  insane,  or  am  I  right  ?  I  prefer 
a  little  canvas  of  Cazin,  with  a  black  ship 
against  a  blue  sky  full  of  stars,  to  all  the 
celebrated  dark  and  smoky  landscapes  of 
the  museums.  Impossible  trees  !  no  atmos- 
phere !  And  why  celebrated  ?  Whilst 
with  Cazin  one  feels  the  freshness  of  night, 
and  one  is  moved  as  by  a  really  beautiful 
night  at  Nice  with  the  moon,  which  ^^  ill 
be  reflected  presently  in  the  still  sea  whose 
light  movement  is  audible.  Ah !  how 
beautiful  it  is  ! 

I  once  had  a  dream,  years  ago !     I  saw 
63 


THE  LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 

most  bi'illiant  stars ;  I  watched  tbera ; 
there  were  five.  I  made  some  of  them  fall 
by  merely  looking  at  them.  As  for  the 
fifth,  I  reached  out  my  hand  to  take  it  .  .  . 
it  was  silver  paper,  and  the  sky  blue  card- 
board, and  to  detach  it  I  had  to  scratch  it 
with  my  nails.  This  means  nothing ;  but 
I  write  because  it  is  pleasant.  I  shall  fall 
asleep  writing,  for  these  confounded  Shep- 
herds bother  me.  I  want  to  use  up  this 
energy  by  writing. 


Sunday,  Srd  February. 

It  is  nearly  two  oVlock,  and  I  am  writ- 
ing in  bed,  after  returning  from  the  Italiens, 
where  they  sang  Massenet's  "  Herodiade." 
I  w^as  with  the  Marechale  de  Canrobert  and 
Claire. 

The  first  act  surprised  me  by  the  novelty 

and    largeness   of    sound.      It    resembles 

nothing  I  know.     Truly  it  is  new  and  full 
G4 


MARIE   BASHKIETSEFF 


and  sonorous  and  barnionious.  The  whole 
House  listened  with  rapture.  The  music 
is  of  one  body  with  the  poem  ;  airs  and 
padding  are  absent.  It  is  large,  magnificent, 
grandiose.  Massenet  is  a  great  artist,  and 
henceforth  a  national  glory.  They  make 
out  that  beautiful  music  is  not  understood 
at  the  first  hearing.  Come  now  !  Here 
one  understands  at  once  that  it  is  admirable 
and  melodious,  in  spite  of  a  very  learned 
orchestration. 

(But  I  did  not  even  know  Wagner.) 
There  is  at  the  end  of  the  first  act  an 
accompaniment  of  such  beauty  that  I  sat 
thrilled.  Several  times  one  watched  with 
eyes  ready  to  weep  with  enthusiasm.  If 
these  dogs  of  spectators  had  been  sincere 
they  would  have  wept. 

Without  doubt  my  Italian  music  cannot 

stand  against  this  splendour.     Massenet  is 

a  melodious   and  French  Wagner.      That 

is  the  comparison.     The  Wagner  is  Manet ; 

S  66 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 

lie  is  the  unfinished  fatlier  of  the  new 
school,  of  tliose  ^vho  seek  talent  in  truth 
and  feeling.  There  have  always  been  new 
schools  ;  only  a  hundred  years  ago  painting 
went  astray.  It  is  being  set  in  the  right 
way  again.  There  the  Wagner  is  Manet. 
The  amorous  note  is  lacking  in  "  Herodiade," 
notwithstanding  the  stupid  idea  of  making 
St.  John  the  lover  of  Salome.  I  should 
have  liked  him  better  as  an  enthusiast,  a 
prophet,  and  her  as  an  enthusiast.  Yet 
love  would  be  inevitable.  I  should  have 
loved  John  myself.  Yes,  Massenet  is  an 
open-air  artist ;  he  requires  air  in  an  opera, 
from  one  end  to  the  other ;  he  wants  the 
characters  and  the  melodies  to  move  in  a 
musical  atmosphere  that  envelops  them 
and  makes  them  live. 

Wednesday,  Qth  February. 

I  have  been  to  Julian's  to  show  him  the 

Raudouin  portrait.     This  Marseillais  has  a 
66 


MAKIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 

very  contented  air,  and  tells  me  it  gets 
better  and  better.  It  is  not  my  opinion 
of  this  portrait.  I  detest  it.  But  if  others 
think  like  Julian.  .  .  .  Ah,  well !  I  shall 
do  it  over  again  all  the  same  ;  I  shall  try 
to  make  it  please  me.  Julian  provokes  me. 
He  insists  on  talking  to  me  like  this : 
"  Your  soundness  in  painting  gets  better 
and  better."  He  will  have  it  that  I  have 
been  very  strong,  then  run  down,  then 
strong  again.  It  is  false,  false,  false  !  My 
sketches  are  there.     Test  it. 


Tuesday,  12th  February. 

Marshal  Canrobert  came  to  see  his  daugh- 
ter's work,  and  he  remained  rather  sur- 
prised but  enraptured.  Between  four  and 
five  o'clock  I  give  advice  to  Mile,  de  Ville- 
vieille  on  the  pose  and  the  character  of 
her   picture.      After   my   death   all   these 

women  will  be  like  the  collaborators  of  the 
67 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 

elder  Dumas.  Each  will  say,  "  It  is  I  who 
have  given  her  the  idea  of  this  ;  it  is  I  who 
have  helped  her  to  execute  that !  " 


Friday,  15th  February. — Saturday,  16th  February. 

A  splendid  soiree  at  the  Italiens.  I 
go  with  the  G s,  Princess  Jeanne  Bo- 
naparte, her  husband. 

Mme.  G finds  me  very  pretty,  dressed 

to  kill  (corsage  black  velvet,  classic  decol- 
lete), hair  well  dressed,  shoulders  of  marble, 
"  quite  the  shoulders  that  show  the  breed." 

Nothing  less  !     The  opinion  of  Mme.  G 

is  the  echo  of  the  majority  always.  But 
that  is  not  why  the  soiree  has  been  splen- 
did ;  it  is  because  we  had  Gayarre,  the  in- 
comparable Spanish  tenor.  He  had  an  ova- 
tion that  he  will  remember.  The  straight- 
laced  men  and  women  were  among  the 
enthusiasts.     He  has  a  miraculous  voice. 

68 


MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


19^/t  February. 

I  cannot  write  for  rage  and  enervation. 
After  labours  and  experiments  ^vithout 
number,  I  have  got  the  dreamed-of  pose  for 
the  portrait  of  Dina.  It  is  very  nice  to  do, 
and  I  have  now  only  to  paint.  And  they 
hinder  me  !  There  remain  only  twenty- 
three  days  !  Artists  will  understand  my 
despair. 

Thursday,  21st  February. 

Dina's  head,  begun  yesterday,  is  painted, 
save  the  expression  in  the  eyes. 

They  made  me  angry  at  lunch  by  talk- 
ing stupidities  about  the  Meissonnier  in- 
cident.    Mme.  M found  Meissonnier, 

and  ordered  her  portrait  of  him.  After 
some  hesitation,  it  seems,  Meissonnier  said, 
"  Yes,  but  it  will  be  70,000  francs."     The 

portrait  has  been  exhibited  at  the  Triennial, 

69 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 

and  is  considered  mediocre.     Mme.  M 

asks  to   have  it  re-touched.      Meissonnier 

refuses.     Mme.  M threatens  to  leave 

the  portrait  against  the  bill.     Meissonnier 

says  they  will   go  to  law.     Mme.  M , 

persuaded  by  some  friends,  pays,  accepts 
the  work,  and  puts  it  out  of  the  way. 
And  all  Paris  stamps  on  the  foreigner.     In 

my  opinion  Mme.  M lacked  delicacy 

in  showing  her  discontent  with  an  artist 
like  Meissonnier,  who  had  done  all  he  could, 
who  is  seventy-three  years  old,  and  who 
has  produced  masterpieces.  But  Meisson- 
nier lacked  nobility  in  forcing  the  ignorant 
hourgeoise  (I  admit  it)  to  pay,  all  the 
same. 


23rd  February. 

If  Christ  returned,  he  certainl}^  would  not 
recognise  the  doctrines  that  he  preached  in 

Catholicism  and  in.  .  .  .    But  Christ  would 

70 


MAEIE   BASHKIRTSEFF 


recognise  the  Bible  for  all  that.  Which 
proves  that  he  was  only  a  man  and  that  it 
is  necessary  to  take  account  of  his  humanity, 
his  environment,  and  his  country.  .  .  . 
However  sublime  a  genius,  he  could  not 
but  be  subject  to  all  those  influences.  If  he 
had  been  God  he  would  not  have  supported 
himself  on  the  predictions  of  the  Scripture, 
he  would  have  .  .  . 

Thou  art  going  to  prescribe  the  retro- 
spective conduct  of  Christ,  dear  child? 
Get  thee  to  bed ! 


25th  February. 

With  an  unequalled  constancy  I  work  at 
Dina,  that  I  shall  show  to  no  one  till  it  is 
finished. 

B and  the  architect  to  dinner.     The 

latter  has  been  ill ;  that  is  the  explanation 

of  his  long  absence.     His  brother  is  always 

ill.     He    leaves   for  Algeria  in  ten   days. 
71 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIO]S"S   OF 

Make  way  for  the  Shepherds  of  Bethlehem  ! 
If  he  does  them  before  my  "  Holy  Women  " 
my  dearest  plan  falls  to  pieces  !  Both  are 
evening  effects ;  I  should  have  the  appear- 
ance of  imitating  him  ;  it  would  be  impos- 
sible. 

Bastien  -  Lepage  is  from  Lorraine. 
Jeanne  D'arc,  the  most  extraordinary  of 
heroines  and  even  of  heroes,  was  from 
Lorraine.  Bastien-Lepage  has  made  a  chef- 
d'oeuvre  of  her,  and  in  my  mad  presumption 
I  felt  myself,  in  it,  related  to  all  the  heroes 
and  all  the  chef-d'ceuvres.  Here  one  might 
develop  an  interesting  thesis  :  the  mysteri- 
ous ties  that  unite  heroes  and  masterpieces 
to  all  those  who  think,  for  the  sun,  the  air, 
the  beauties  of  nature  belong  to  all  ! 

My  words  are  obscure,  but  if  there  are 
men  who  think  like  me  they  will  under- 
stand— the  others  will  never  understand, 
even  if   the   lucid,  easy,  practical,  logical 

M.  Clemenceau  set  himself  to  explain  it  to 

7^ 


MARIE   BASHKIRTSEFF 


them.  I  admire  Clemenceau.  He  lacks 
passion,  but  he  obtains  almost  the  same 
effect  by  dint  of  accuracy  in  expression. 


29f7i  February  1884. 

I  am  painting  Dina.  Only,  how  I  fear 
to  say  anything.  ...  I  have  enormous  emo- 
tions. When  one  attains,  is  one  always 
so  unhappy  and  moved  before  nature  ? 
Naive,  grand  artist,  thou  wouldst  have  thy- 
self say  that  without  these  torments  one  is 
but  an  artisan  ?     Good ! 

But,  my  God !  it  is  possible  I  deceive 
myself,  and  one  is  so  stupid  and  ridiculous 
then. 

Thursday,  6th  March  1884. 

What  had  to  be  has  come  about.     There 

remain  to  me  eight  days  and  the  portrait 

is  not  finished.     Oh  !     I  am  calm  ! 
73 


THE   LAST   COIS^FESSIOXS   OF 

My  exhibit  among  the  women  is  re- 
marked ;  they  quote  me  ^vith  eulogies  in  the 
great  papers  where  I  know  no  one. 

I  am  sad,  unhappy,  ill ;  and  now  this 
makes  me  burst  into  tears.  I  am  on  the 
verge  of  having  talent,  and  I  have  no 
longer  health.  I  try  to  impose  upon  my- 
self, but  it  is  impossible.  There  remain  to 
me  eight  days,  and  the  portrait  has  to  be 
done.  I  no  longer  see  it,  I  no  longer 
know  what  I  am  doing,  these  three 
months  past. 

But  .  .  .  eight  days  .  .  .  two  for  the 
head,  two  for  the  arm,  one  for  the  other, 
one  for  the  dress,  one  for  the  hand.  There 
must  be  no  failure,  and  yet !     Ah,  pity ! 

Friday,  7th  March. 

Since  the  portrait  is  done  for,  I  want  to 
know  if  the  picture  needs  some  serious 
retouches.     I  send   to  find   the   architect, 


MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


who  comes  at  eight  o'clock,  and  his  first 
words  apprised  us  that  his  brother  has 
been  in  Paris  for  two  days,  very  ill ;  his 
mother  is  with  him.  He  expressed  his 
liv^ely  regrets  not  to  be  in  a  state  to  come 
to  see  the  picture.  He  leaves  in  three  or 
four  days  for  Algiers.  He  has  nothing  for 
the  Salon.  He  is  in  bed,  it  appears.  Let 
lis  hope  Algeria  will  set  him  up  again. 

I  made  a  pen  sketch.  The  architect,  a 
cord  passed  around  his  body,  drags  it  vigor- 
ously toward  a  post  with  the  inscription 
"  Rue  Ampere."  At  the  end  of  the  cord 
lies  his  brother,  flat  on  his  stomach,  cling- 
ing with  both  hands  to  the  sign  post 
"  Rue  Legendre."  I  am  sending  him  this 
sketch. 

There   remain   to   me  only  seven  days, 

and  I  begin  again  to  hope  that  the  portrait 

will  be  finished.     There  is  nothing  done 

but  the  background  and  one  arm.     It  is 

madness. 

76 


THE  LAST  CONFESSION'S  OF 


Monday,  10th  March. 

It  is  begun  and  not  badly.  Claire,  in  a 
hat,  out  of  doors ;  slie  has  much  character 
and  poses  well. 

But  I  am  distressed  not  to  have  my  por- 
trait white,  with  the  bare  arms  and  neck 
of  the  Academy,  the  beautiful  Academy. 
A  flat  arrangement.  An  indoor  dress,  all 
white.  Ah  !  that  was  beautiful.  I  shall 
do  it  yet. 

My  excessive  imagination  has  caused  me 
to  make  a  journey  into  Palestine  before 
dinner.  I  shall  do  some  studies  and  a 
picture,  and  in  the  month  of  October  I 
shall  go  to  Palestine  and  do  my  "  Holy 
Women." 

Sunday,  IGth  March. 

Many    people    came.       First   the   Can- 

roberts  and   the   Marshal,   Mme.  Hochon 
76 


MAKIE   BASHKIETSEFF 


and  her  mother,  Carrier-Belleuse,  Dupuis, 
Paul  Deschanel,  Dr.  Guesnay,  aud  others. 

But  I  was  too  nervous  to  know  who 
was  who.  Visits  succeeded  each  other 
without  interruption  till  four  o'clock  in 
the  evening.  They  have  taken  down  the 
pictures.  The  Marechale,  Villevieille, 
Claire,  myself,  and  the  doctor  got  into 
noble  carriages,  conducted  by  the  correct 
Paul  Deschanel,  bareheaded,  and  the 
others.  The  doors  wide  open,  all  the 
urchins  who  had  left  the  shelter  gathered 
round  and  watched  those  invited,  in  the 
v^estibule. 

It  was  radiant  weather.  An  enormous 
mob  of  daubers.  What  pictures  !  My 
God,  lessen  the  number  of  painters  !  Each 
of  us  carries  under  his  arm  a  little  frame 
so  as  to  enter  without  difficulty.  AVhen 
these  brigands,  gathered  at  the  entrance, 
saw  four  ladies  and  an  old  decorated  gen- 
tleman, each  with  a  parcel  under  his  arm, 
77 


THE   LAST   COXFESSIOXS   OF 

there  was  a  ferocious  clamour.  .  .  .  We 
found  ourselves  at  the  head  of  the  stair- 
case, rather  upset  by  this  reception ;  and 
as  we  began  to  look  about  in  the  galleries, 
other  wretches  came  in  amid  other  cries, 
yet  more  piercing,  and  whistles.  Ah,  well ! 
it  is  very  amusing.  Only  we  await  the 
arrival  of  our  canvases  till  six  o'clock  ;  the 
carriage  was  late  ;  at  six  we  are  still  on  the 
staircase,  waiting.  It  is  there  that  Gervese 
spoke  to  me  for  a  moment. 


Tuesday,  2oth  March. 

The  picture  is  sketched  out. 

The  architect  writes  to  ask  whether  he 
may  dine  this  evening,  and  adds,  "  I  know 
the  sympath}'  you  have  for  myself  and  my 
brother,  so  I  shall  come  to  talk  to  you  of 
what  I  have  so  much  at  heart.''  Consider- 
ing these  words  of  friendship  and  the  really 

grave  illness  of  his  brother,  Mamma  and 

78 


MARIE   BASHKIRTSEFF 


even  Rosalie  recommended  me  not  to  per- 
mit myself  any  nonsense ;  it  would  be  cruel 
and  in  bad  taste. 

He  had  in  his  pocket  a  letter  from  his 
brother,  who  writes  to  his  friend  Charles 
Baude  (the  engraver).  He  gave  it  me  at 
my  request.  Eight  pages  of  small,  tortured 
writing  and  erasures,  like  my  illustrious 
correspondent.  The  letter  is  quite  charm- 
ing. He  speaks  of  what  "  Mamma  "  says  of 
the  Arabs.  He  goes  out  with  "  Mamma ;  " 
then  fresh  impressions  and  delightfid 
things,  from  the  heart,  and  not  an  ordinary 
man's.  .  .  .  But  this  letter,  which  enables 
me  to  penetrate  into  the  intimacy  of  this 
man  whom  I  hardly  know,  makes  a  certain 
impression  on  me,  and  I  set  myself  to  sneer, 
to  quote  passages  to  ridicule  them,  and  1 
end  by  saying  that  '■'■  this  being  is  not  even 
sick." 

Imagine  the  effect !  And  at  each  ex- 
clamation the  architect  says  that  he  cannot 
79 


THE  LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 

bear  this,  that  it  is  as  if  one  laughed  at 
God  before  a  priest.  As  I  saw  he  would 
leave  under  a  bad  impression,  I  accused 
him  of  misunderstanding  me,  and  ended  by 
summoning  him  to  beg  my  pardon. 

Emile  Bastien-Lepage  tells  me  that  more 
than  twenty  persons  have  spoken  to  him  of 
my  landscape  at  the  Union  of  Women 
Painters.  Duez  spoke  to  him  of  it. 
"  You  positively  hold  the  ropes,"  he  said  ; 
"  a  real  success." 

That  is  delightful ;  so  I  have  done  well 
to  send  this  landscape  to  the  Salon. 


Saturday,  20th   March. 

We  are  going  to  the  Italiens  to-night. 

They  are   giving  Lucie  de  Lammennooi^ 

and    Gayarre  sings.     The  music  is  divine 

and   will   never   grow  old,  for   it   has  no 

stamp   of   fashion,  no  fondness  save  that 

of   expressing   sentiments   such    as    love, 
80 


MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


hatred,  sorrow.  But  these  are  eternal 
sentiments,  and,  in  short,  there  is  noth- 
ing beyond  that.  Melodrama,  do  yon  say  ? 
I  laugh  at  that,  provided  I  am  moved, 
and  I  am  moved  when  Edgar  appears 
at  the  top  of  the  steps.  At  the  moment 
when,  having  torn  up  the  contract,  he 
breaks  out  into  imprecations  it  is  madden- 
ing. Some  people  say  that  Gayarre  sings 
through  the  nose,  and  screams.  The  pack 
of  idiots !  The  truth  is  that  this  man  has 
a  miraculous  voice,  and  that  one  thinks 
neither  of  science  nor  method  in  listening 
to  him.  He  sings  like  a  court  singer  who 
has  an  artist's  soul.  He  has  shade  and  ex- 
pression, and  acts  as  well  as  sings.  In  the 
septet,  when  he  says,  "  Si,  ingratto,  t'amo, 
t'amo  encor  ! "  it  is  absolutely  admirable, 
and  one  hears  him  alone,  despite  the  cries 
of  the  others.  A  polished  actor  might  not 
speak  it  so ;  for,  with  Gayarre  it  is  true,  it 

is  natural,  human ;  common,  therefore,  to 
6  81 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 

all  peoples  and  all  classes.  In  the  expres- 
sion of  absolutely  sincere  sentiments  there 
is  only  human  nature — habit,  education, 
everything  disappears,  Shakespeare  un- 
derstood that,  and  Shakespeare  is  great  be- 
cause he  is  neither  English,  nor  aristocrat, 
nor  plebeian,  nor  of  any  period ;  but  eter- 
nally true,  like  hatred,  sorrow,  love. 

And  the  desire  of  being  placed  on  the 
line  at  the  Salon  ?  After  all  I  have  No.  3 
like  last  year.  It  is  hard  !  It  appears  I 
have  had  so  many  votes  for  No.  2  that 
thev  thouo;ht  I  would  have  it.  It  is  a  con- 
siderable  blow,  and  all  my  hopes  are  shat- 
tered. 

Is  it,  then,  that  my  picture  is  bad  ?  Then 
how  comes  it  that  things  notoriously  inferior 
had  number  2  ?  One  loses  oneself  in  con- 
jectures, and,  I  should  like  to  think,  with 
injustice.  For  the  moment  I  should  like 
to  think  they  have  been  very  unjust.     It 

is  frightfully  disgusting,  and  I  have  a  horror 

82 


MAKIE   BASHKIRTSEFF 


of  taking  steps  to  obtain  what  is  my  due. 
And  then  I  believe  in  my  inferiority  ;  and, 
besides,  I  am  ashamed  to  ask  favours.  .  .  . 
It  is  dreadfuh 

Monday,  7th  April. 

This  evening  Julian  dines  with  us.  This 
Julian  takes  an  extreme  pleasure  in  telling 
me  dreadful  things  about  myself.  I  am 
bad,  nothing  of  the  woman,  a  fantastic  brain, 
etc.  I  remember  no  more  of  the  flattering 
horrors  he  has  indulged  in. 

And  then  we  talk  painting. 


Sunday,  ISth  April. 
I  remain  in  the  house  in  order  to  reply 
to  the  unknown  (Guy  de  Maupassant) — I 
should  say  that  it  is  I  who  am  unknown  to 
him.  He  has  already  replied  three  times. 
This  is  not  a  Balzac  whom  one  adores  com- 
pletely. Now  I  regret  that  I  did  not  ad- 
83 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS   OF 

dress  myself  to  Zola  but  to  his  lieutenant, 
who  has  talent,  and  a  good  deal  of  it.  He 
is,  among  the  young,  the  one  who  has 
pleased  me.  I  woke  up  one  beautiful  morn- 
ing with  the  desire  of  getting  the  pretty 
things  I  know  how  to  say  appreciated  by 
a  connoisseur.     I  searched  and  chose  him. 


Friday,  18th  April. 

As  I  foresaw,  all  is  broken  off  bet^veen 
my  correspondent  and  myself.  His  fourth^ 
and  last  letter  is  coarse  and  stupid. 

For  the  rest,  as  I  am  telling  him  in  my 
last  reply,  these  things  need  a  boundless 
admiration  on  the  part  of  the  unknown. 
I  think  that  he  is  not  satisfied,  but  what  do 
I  care  for  that ! 

Is  it  unfortunate  not  to  be  more  simple  ? 
Or  is  there  a  living  being  I  could  admire 
completely  ?     Balzac  is  dead,  Victor  Hugo 

1  Letter  VIII. ,  page 
84 


MAEIE  BASIIKIIITSEFF 


is  eiglity-two  years  old,  Dumas  ills  sixty. 
There  is  one  of  them,  however,  whom  I 
have  adored. 


Wednesday,  23rd  Api'il,  to  Sunday,  27th  April. 

Kosalie  brings  me  from  the  poste  restante 
a  letter  from  Guy  de  Maupassant.-^  The 
fifth  is  the  best.  We  are  not  angry  any 
lonp-er.  And  since  he  has  done  in  the 
Gaulois  a  delightful  clironiqiie^  I  feel  my- 
self appeased.     It  is  so  amnsing  ! 

This  man  whom  I  did  not  know  occupies 
all  my  thoughts.  Does  he  think  of  me? 
Why  does  he  write  to  me  ? 

nth  April,  1884. 

I  am  engaged  in  replying  to  Guy  de 
Maupassant.  I  could  not  have  done  any- 
thing, so  impatiently  do  I  await  the  var- 

1  Letter  X.,  page  148. 
85 


THE   LAST   COXFESSIOXS   OF 

nisbing.  Verily,  literature  is  capturing  me. 
Vanish  Dumas,  Zola,  all !  It  is  I  who 
arrive !  But  I  shall  open  the  Figaro  and 
the  GauJois  with  trembling  !  If  they  say 
nothing  it  is  a  disaster.  And  if  they  speak 
what  will  they  say  ?  My  heart  stops  at  the 
thought,  then  beats  slowly. 


Tlinrsday,  1st  May. 

We  go  to  the  Salon  with  G . 

The  Salon  !  Does  it  really  become  worse 
and  worse,  or  is  it  I  who  become  more  and 
more  exacting? 

There    is    nothing  to   see.      This  mass 

of    painting    without    conviction,  without 

thought,  without  soul,  is  horrible.     They 

are  malignant,  save  the   great   decorative 

composition  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes.     This 

man  is  senseless  in  his  small   }>ictures,  but 

his  great  decorative  canvases  are  beautiful. 
86 


MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


This  transports  you  into  an  archaic,  strange, 
and  very  poetical  atmosphere.  After  all, 
it  is  neither  drawn  nor  painted,  not  human, 
but  .  .  .  And  yet  I  am  only  beginning  to 
like  it.  It  is  a  conversion.  There  is  also  a 
little  canvas  by  Beraud,  an  Anarchist  club ; 
it  is  altogether  charming  and  spirituel. 
There  is  also  the  portrait  of  the  beautiful 
Mme. by  Sargent.  It  is  a  great  suc- 
cess of  curiosity  ;  people  find  it  atrocious. 
For  me  it  is  perfect  painting,  masterly,  true. 
But  he  has  done  what  he  saw.  The  beau- 
tiful Mme. is  horrible  in  daylight,  for 

she  paints  herself,  despite  her  twenty-six 
years.  This  chalky  paint  gives  to  the 
shoulders  the  tone  of  a  corpse.  Further, 
she  paints  her  ears  rose  and  her  hair  mahog- 
any. The  eyebrows  are  traced  in  dark 
mahogany  color,  two  thick  lines. 

To  myself  my  picture  seems  an  old  paint- 
ing.    And  then  I  no  longer  see  the  necessity 

of  anything  at  all.     What  should  I  invent 

87 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIOXS   OF 


that  is  new  in  art  ?  If  tliis  is  not  so,  to  make 
one's  way  with  the  flash  of  a  meteor,  ^vhat 
is  the  good  of  it  ?  To  have  talent  ?  That 
only  ?  Then  after  ?  To  die,  for  we  must 
always  die.  And  life  is  sad,  dreadful,  black. 
What  shall  I  become  ?  What  do  ?  Where 
go  ?  Why  ?  How  to  be  happy  ?  I  am 
weary  before  I  have  done  anything.  I 
have  used  up  all  enjoyments  in  imagination  ; 
I  have  dreamed  of  such  great  things  that 
what  may  come  to  me  will  be  small  beside 
them.     And  then  ?  and  then  ? 

Then,  to-morrow,  the  day  after,  or  in 
eight  days,  some  foolery  will  happen  which 
will  change  the  current  of  my  ideas,  and 
then  the  thing  will  begin  all  over  again,  and 
then  death. 


Friday,  2nd  May. 
Last  night,  for  all  my  lugubrious  ideas, 

I  nevertheless  went  to  Mme.  Hochon's  to 
88 


MAKIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


receive  compliments  on  my  picture.  Black 
dress,  velvet  corsage  decollete,  a  bit  of  black 
tulle  on  the  shoulders,  and  violets.  There 
was  music.  Massenet  played  and  sang. 
Then  the  amiable  and  always  charmed  and 
charming  Carolus  Duran  sang.  There 
were  the  Fleurys,  Madeleine  Lemaire,  the 
Franchesis,  the  Canroberts.  The  Marshal 
took  me  in  to  supper.  Then  the  painters, 
Munkaczy  and  his  wife,  Hebert,  etc.  1 
must  really  go  out ;  this  little  party  has  done 
me  good.  As  it  rained  I  went  to  Julian's. 
He  said  he  would  not  stake  two  hands 
for  a  medal,  but  that  he  would  stake  quite 
one  and  a  half ;  and  that  he  would  tell  me 
nothing  of  it  if  it  were  not  almost  certain. 
A  pleasant  evening  with  Julian  and  Tony 
Kobert-Fleury.  Tony  Robert-Fleury  told 
me  he  led  his  father  before  my  picture  with- 
out saying  whose  it  was,  and  his  father 
found  it  very  good^  very  good^  really. 


89 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 


Sunday,  ith  May  1884. 

Since  Monday  I  have  done  nothing.  I 
pass  long  hours  with  arms  hanging  down. 
To  dream  of  nothing  or  of  love.  Goncourt 
says  that  women  always  have  a  love  affair, 
near  or  far.     It  is   very  true — sometimes. 


Tuesday,  6th  May. 

I  am  foolish  to  wish  to  write.       Can  I  ? 

And  yet  an  invincible  power  urges  me  to 

it.     Oh  !  that  is  from  long  ago — from  the 

novel  begun  in  1875  and  never  finished,  and 

before  and  since  and  always.     Now  I  have 

come  to  a  point  at  which  all  these  dreams 

and  all  the  observations   caught   in  flight 

wa?it    to  take  bodily  form.     It  seems   as 

though  one  had  the  subjects  for  ten  books 

in  one's  head.     One  does  not  know  where 
90 


MARIE   BASHKIRTSEFF 


to  commence  ;  and  when  it  is  a  question  of 
realising  tliese  dreams  one  is  stopped  after 
a  dozen  pages. 

For  the  rest,  I  speak  to  you  of  it  be- 
cause I  note  here  the  particular  states  of  my 
mind.  There  is  even  a  quantity  of  things 
already  written.  But  I  laugh  at  my  pre- 
tensions. It  would  be  rather  a  fine  absurd- 
ity, to  write !  After  all,  I  renounce  it ;  I 
say  "  No."  I  laugh  at  myself,  because  I  am 
too  much  afraid  of  being  comical,  and  it  is 
an  irresistible  inclination. 

After  all,  it  is  a  sweet  folly  that  makes 
me  happy,  before  which  I  am  troubled, 
moved,  as  though  I  entertained  it  seriously. 
And  I  dream  of  it  perhaps  too  seriously  to 
confess  it  even  here.  But  one  life  would 
not  suffice,  mine  especially. 

To  touch  everything  and  leave  nothing 
after  oneself ! 

Ah  !  my  God  !     I  hope  better  than  that. 

Ah !  I  am  very  cowardly,   and  under  the 
91 


THE   LAST   COXFESSIOXS   OF 

blow  of  such  a  terror  I  am  ready  to  believe 
in  priests. 

Saturday,  10th  3Iay. 

In  the  morning,  at  the  Salon  with  Claire 
de  Canrobert  ;  lunch  in  the  Hue  de  Ma- 
rignan  at  the  Canroberts'.  Many  people 
there.  I  am  bored.  What  does  that 
mean  ?  It  is  the  month  of  May  that  trou- 
bles me,  probably.     Yes. 

This  evening,  at  the  Italiens.  After  this 
panegyric  of  Etincelle  in  the  Figaro  I  am 
much  stared  at,  which  embarrasses  me,  for 
I  am  not  sure  of  looking  my  best.  All 
these  people  watch  me,  and  opera-glasses 
are  turned  upon  me  from  every  box. 

Wednesday,  Wih  May. 

A  letter  from  Guy  de  Maupassant.^ 
What  does  he  think,  that  man  ?     He  is  a 

1  Letter  XII.,  p.  154. 
92 


MARIE   BASHKIRTSEFF 


hundred  leagues  from  knowing  who  I  am, 
for  I  have  spoken  of  it  to  no  one,  not  even 
to  Julian.  And  I,  what  am  I  going  to  tell 
him  ? 

My  picture,  "  Jean  et  Jacques,"  has  ob- 
tained an  honourable  mention  at  Nice. 
Everyone  is  mad  with  joy  except  myself. 


Friday,  IQth  May. 

We  go  to  the  Salon  ;  not  a  few  acquaint- 
ances. Mdlle.  Abbema  tells  me  that  her 
brother-in-law,  M.  Paul  Mantz  (of  Xe 
Temps).,  finds  me  highly  talented.  A  little 
later  we  meet  a  renowned  painter,  Mdlle. 
Arosa.  She  is  with  a  lady  who  causes  her- 
self to  be  introduced,  to  say  that  she  is  the 
daughter  of  M.  Paul  Mantz.  It  would 
seem  rather  silly  to  repeat  here  all  these 
flattering  things.  When  they  are  simply 
worldlings  I  never  mention  it,  for  polite- 
ness exacts  these  compliments.  But  Ab- 
93 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS   OF 


bema  and  the  dauo'liter  of  Paul  Mautz,  in 
telling  me  what  the  great  critic  thinks  of 
me,  insist  on  making  me  clearly  under- 
stand what  an  unheard-of  chanCe  is  the 
opinion  of  a  man  like  him. 

He  has  had,  it  appears,  an  article  in  Le 
Temps^  and  I  have  received  twenty-two  or 
twenty -three  essays  from  different  journals. 
As  for  myself,  I  laugh  at  them.  They 
think  much  of  my  picture  and  myself.  I 
have  put  on  for  the  first  time  a  dark 
grey  woollen  dress,  very  simple  and  very 
stylish,  a  black  straw  hat,  Watteau 
fashion. 

Since  Bastien-Lepage  is  so  ill,  all  pique 
of  pride  has  disappeared.  I  fear  it  no 
longer ;  there  is  a  kind  of  pleasure  in  it. 
Suppose  that  an  emperor  whom  one  would 
salute  afar  off  with  humble  reserve  fell  in- 
to a  ravine,  breaking  his  legs  and  one  could 
succour  him.  .  .  . 


94 


MAEIE   BASHKIKTSEFF 


Saturday,  17th  May. 

To-niglit  at  the  Clovis  Hugues'.  Ah ! 
it  is  curious !  Atrocious  women  and  long- 
haired poets,  fevered  imbeciles !  When 
Mistral  came  in  even  the  women  rose. 
They  served  up  to  this  unfortunate  fellow 
I  know  not  how  many  pieces  of  verse. 
Mistral  is  like  a  pretty  policeman.  He 
sang  twenty  or  thirty  couplets,  taken  up 
in  chorus  by  the  audience. 

There  are  fewer  celebrities  than  I  ex- 
pected. In  fact  there  were  only  Mistral, 
Clovis  Hugues,  Paul  Arene,  Jules  Gaillard, 
and  some  small  fry. 

I  had  a  turn  of  polka  with  Clovis 
Hugues.  After  that  we  left  with  Mme. 
Gaillard,  who  is  enthusiastic  about  what 
Paul  Mantz  told  her  of  me. 


20th  May  1884. 

Robert-Fleury  says  that  Duez  likes  my 
95 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 

painting  much.     Duez  is  one  of  the  jury, 
but  I  shall  have  the  votes  as^ainst  me. 

For  the  rest  I  am  very  calm,  pre-occupied 
with  my  illness  and  wdth  what  I  am  going 
to  do  next ;  this  Salon  and  these  pictures 
are  of  the  past,  and  I  already  look  forward. 
If  I  do  not  get  the  medal,  my  picture  will 
none  the  less  have  been  seen. 


Wednesday,  21st  May. 

Julian  comes  to  dine  this  evening.  He 
did  not  wish  to  come,  he  says,  not  having 
good  news  to  bring.  However,  it  was 
well  started  ;  but  "when  the  moment  arrives, 
each  one  is  reserved. 

I,  so  calm,  am  afraid  of  beginning  to  agi- 
tate myself. 

We   have  read  some  letters  of  Guy  de 

Maupassant ;    so    with    that  the    evening 

passed.      He  was  extremely  amused  with 

mine  and  his.     Ah  !  Julian  is  a  good  public. 
96 


MAEIE  BASIlKIItTSEFF 


He  seems  to  have  made  a  discovery ;  I  am 
only  an  audacious  braggart,  at  bottom,  a 
child  that  a  coarse  word  confounds.  He 
says  that  if  I  had  only  waited  two  days  I 
should  have  replied  with  things  that  would 
have  left  Maupassant  a  little  boy  for  life ; 
and  that,  having  huriied,  I  showed  myself 
a  little  girl,  a  girl  who  saw  a  great  person, 
her  idol,  acting  badly,  and  who  was  thun- 
derstruck. 


Thursday,  22nd  May. 

I  had  promised,  long  ago,  to  go  to  see 
Carolus  Duran,  and  this  morning  I  remem- 
ber the  promise.  He  receives  on  Thursday 
mornings.  We  go  there  then.  This  charm- 
ing man  was  in  a  velvet  jacket,  and  he  has, 
my  faith,  outlined  I  know  not  what  Span- 
ish step  while  a  friend  played  on  the 
guitar.     Afterwards   I   played    the   organ 

and  he  sang. 

7  97 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS  OF 

I  begin  to  be  a  little  nervous.  A  year 
ago,  to  a  day,  I  was  in  the  agonies  of  the 
naming.     Ah  !  it's  nothing  ! 


Friday,  23rd  May. 

Opening  of  the  Meissonnier  Exhibition, 
rue  cle  Seze,  for  the  benefit  of  the  night 
shelters.  Mamma  is  patroness.  There  are 
six  millions  worth  of  pictures  there,  and  it's 
only  a  third  of  what  he  has  done.  I  am  in 
dark  grey.  Many  acquaintances.  A  very 
pleasant  quarter  of  an  hour.  Thence  we 
went  to  the  Salon.  Few  people.  Carol  us 
Duran,  always  charming.  I  hope  much 
that  he  will  vote  for  me. 

M.    N announces  his   visit  for  this 

evening,  and  says,  "  After  all  do  not  grieve." 

And  we  see  that  he  has  spoken  of  me  to 

all  the  artists.     Could  this  be  a  move  of 

X to  reduce  me  to  modesty  and  buy 

something  from  me  very  cheap  ? 
98 


M.    CAROIJ'S    DIIRAN. 


MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


I  receive  a  note  from  the  architect : — 

"  Dear  Mademoiselle — They  are  asses, 
all !  Medals  are  only  made  for  nobodies. 
Do  better  still !  One  can  always  do  better ; 
it  is  the  only  way  of  avenging  yourself. 
A  real  artist  is  abo\'e  all  this  jobbery. 
Believe  me,  your  friend  and  your  ad- 
mirer. 

"  E311LE  Bastien-Lepage." 


Wednesday,  2Sth  May. 

I  reply  to  M.  Julian  : — 

"  Monsieur — Do  not  suppose  me  to  be 
very  much  agitated  because  I  write  to  you 
again.  I  no  longer  recollect  my  letter,  but 
I  told  him  in  substance  that,  without  being 
in  a  rage,  I  no  longer  believe  M.  Julian 
capable  of  having  played  comedy. 

"  I  should  like,  then,  to  know,  dear  Mas- 
ter, all  about  it,  what  the  honourable  jury 
99 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS   OF 

says,  what  are  the  principal  faults.  Why  ! 
I  think  less  well  of  my  painting  than  any- 
body ;  but  in  spite  of  myself,  I  see  on  the 
right  and  on  the  left  things  rewarded,  and  I 
am  plunged  into  an  ocean  of  doubt.  The 
only  thing  that  interests  me  is  to  know- 
whether  my  picture  is  good  or  bad.  Do 
not  tell  me  it  is  good  in  order  to  console 
me.  It  is  better  to  tell  me  the  truth  and 
not  let  me  persist  in  a  vain  path.  The 
things  I  consider  feeble  or  absurd  are  per- 
haps the  good  ones  ;  I  deceive  myself — 
that  is  all.  I  know  one  always  attains  if 
one  is  really  strong,  but  what  delay  and 
what  pain ! 

"  I  am  really  ashamed  to  speak  so  much 
of  myself,  but  I  must  defend  myself.  I 
believe  myself  very  impartial.  I  am  at 
once  actor  and  spectator :  the  spectator 
Me  judges  the  painting  of  the  actor 
Me. 

"  It  is  not  good  compared  with  a  master, 
100 


MARIE  BASIIKIETSEFF 


but  compared  with  those  who  have  got 
medals — Oh,  Lord  I " 

Friday,  SOth  May. 

This  evening  we  went  to  the  Marquise 

de  C 's-     Mme.  Krausse,  the  Vicomtesse 

de  Tredern,  Princesse  Jeanne  Bonaparte, 
etc.,  etc.,  were  there.  The  Countess  de 
Tredern  is  a  great  lady,  who  has  got  an 
enormous  advertisement  as  an  aristocratic 
singer.  She  is  pretty,  immensely  rich,  and 
sings  very  well — in  fact,  one  of  the  rare 
talents  of  the  great  world.  I  am  dismal, 
and  dream  of  the  philosophy  of  love  as 
well  as  the  love  of  the  philosophers.  All 
the  people  round  me  had  real  preoccupa- 
tions while  I  weltered  in  abstractions. 


Monday,  2nd  June. 

Emile  Bastien-Lepage  dines  here.     His 

brother    only    adds    a    few  lines   to  his 
101 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS   OF 

motlier's  letter.  He  uo  longer  writes  to 
liis  dearest  friends,  does  not  work,  and 
endures  horrible  suffering,  physical  and 
mental.  He  writes :  "  Thank  the  Bash- 
kirtseffs  for  me  and  give  them  my  kind 
regards.  I  have  read  the  newspaper 
articles  on  Mdlle.  Bashkirtseff,  and  her 
success  does  not  surprise  me." 

The  kind  architect  says  I  have  had  the 
medal,  because  all  the  artists  noticed  my 
picture  and  I  am  known,  and  have  had 
a  great  and  true  success. 

I  have  a  subject  for  a  picture.     It  came 

to  me  at  three  o'clock,  and  this  evening  at 

dinner  I  saw  what  I  should  do  so  distinctly 

that  it  made  me  jump  up  as  if  there  were 

a  spring  in  the  chair.     I  was  just  wanting 

a  modern  subject  witli  plenty  of  figures, 

something  nude,  and  a  not  too  large  canvas. 

The    very   thing ;  I    am   going   to    do    it. 

AVliat  ?    Ah,  well,  some  outlandish  wrestlers, 

witli  people   round  them.     There  will  be 
102 


MARIE   BASHKIRTSEFF 


bare  bodies  to  show  that  I  can  do  tbe  nude. 
And  the  people  around — that  will  be  very 
difficult ;  but  if  it  lays  hold  of  me,  that  is 
all  that  is  necessary — intoxication  ! 


Saturday,  2\st  June. 

I  am  thinner  by  half.  For  two  mouths 
it  has  been  possible  to  follow  day  by  day 
the  progress  of  this  attenuation.  It  is  no 
longer  Venus  Callipyge — it  is  Diana. 
Diana  may  change  into  a  carcase.  In  ap- 
pearance I  am  well  and  live  as  usual.  But 
I  have  fever  every  day.  Sometimes  in  the 
day,  sometimes  in  the  night.  Nightmare, 
hallucinations. 

Disciples  of  Maupassant,  do  not  attribute 
this  condition  to  the  sleeplessness  of  a  full- 
grown  girl !  No,  my  poor  friends,  it  is 
not  that.  Dreams  of  love,  I  make  them 
every    evening  to   send   me  to   sleep — at 

least,  when  I  do  not  think  of  some  picture. 
103 


THE  LAST  COaSTESSIONS   OF 


No,  it  is  real  fever,  fatiguing  and  stupefy- 
ing. 

So  I  am  resolved  to  go  and  see  Dr.  Po- 
tain.  You  understand,  this  is  not  the 
moment  to  die.  There  are  triumphant 
articles  in  the  society  papers  in  Paris  and 
in  England. 

My  dress  and  my  coiffure  of  the  Russian 
Embassy  are  going  the  round  of  the  Press 
— coiffure  a  la  Psyche,  they  say.  I  have 
also  fifty  papers  that  speak  of  my  salon 
and  some  serious  art  criticisms.  I  begin 
to  have  talent,  and  I  see  myself  wither. 

I  have  read  Daudet's  new  book,  over 
which  Paris  is  distracted.  It  is  called 
Sapplio.  I  have  read  it  twice,  wishing  to 
be  reconciled  with  Daudet's  style,  which 
unnerves  me.  Am  I  ridiculous  to  be  pro- 
voked by  it  ?  It  runs,  runs  ;  it  spins  along, 
always  quickly.  It  is  a  flight,  a  scattering. 
The  reader   strives   to   follow,  breathless. 

It  is  all  scraps  of  phrases,  scraps  thrown  off, 
104 


MAKIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


as  if  regretfully,  by  a  pitiful  man,  who  is 
too  much  pressed  to  say  as  much  as  he 
knows,  and  always  something  sinister  in 
hints  a  2?ropos  of  fried  potatoes.  It  is  like 
a  picture  painted  in  dabs — the  eye  is 
fidgeted  by  not  being  able  to  rest  on  any- 
thing solid.     An  endless  pizzicato. 

How  Zola  would  execrate  it !  But  he 
will  not  say  so.  If  he  disparage  Daudet, 
whom  should  he  praise?  And  he  must 
have  the  air  of  loving  others  besides  him- 
self. He  burns  incense  to  Goncourt  and 
Daudet  so  as  not  to  seem  to  adore  himself 
only. 


Wednesday,  2ith  June. 

It  seems  that  we  shall  have  the  cholera. 
It  is  already  at  Toulon.  It  is  those  infa- 
mous English,  who,  for  money  interests, 
make  thousands  of  men  die.     If  ever  tliere 

was  a  people  denuded  of  all  sympathetic 
105 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 

qualities,  that  is  one.  They  are  wise  and 
repellant,  egotists  and  cowards,  as  history 
shows. 

More  than  8000  people  have  left  Toulon. 
A  good  part  came  to  Paris  by  this  morn- 
ing's train.  It  is  very  nice  for  Paris.  It 
seems  that  in  the  Chamber  they  were  so 
much  moved  that  the  Egyptian  question 
troubled  no  one.  Ah  !  man  is  interesting 
to  study  when  he  becomes  quite  natural  in 
face  of  a  question  of  life  or  death.  Every 
one  becomes  primitive;  and  Jules  Ferry 
will  have  a  face  like  my  little  model,  aged 
six  years. 

Do  you  see  them,  these  animals  in  frock 
coats  and  vests,  going  to  ask  for  explana- 
tions from  the  Minister  of  Marine?  Do 
you  see  these  herds — destined  to  perish 
some  day  or  other — who  are  conscious  of 
it,  and  yet  agitate  themselves  all  the  same? 
What  is  the  good  ?     AVe  all  die  whatever 

we  do,  as  Maupassant  says. 
106 


MARIE  BASIIKIRTSEFF 


We  know  that  we  shall  all  die,  that 
none  will  escape,  and  we  have  the  courage 
to  live  under  this  frightful  menace. 

Is  it  not  this  terror  of  the  end,  when  we 
are  no  more,  that  urges  certain  men  to 
leave  something  behind  them  ?  Yes,  those 
who  are  conscious  of  this  inevitable  end 
have  a  horror  of  it  and  wish  to  survive. 
I*  not  this  instinct  the  proof  that  there  is, 
or  that  we  desire,  an  immortality  ? 

Oh,  to  finish !  to  disa23pear !  And 
others  ^vill  come  after.  Did  I  not  wish  to 
die  last  year  because  I  shall  not  leave  a 
name  like  Michael  Augelo  ? 


6th  July. 

I  am  afraid  of  tiring  Jules  Bastien-Le- 
page.  I  do  not  feel  that  he  takes  pleasure 
in  seeing  me,  though  he  is  very  amiable. 

There  are  fugitive  gleams — one   knows 

not    what — that    put   you   in   confidence. 
107 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS   OF 

And  that  is  wanting  to  me.  He  is  very 
mucli  spoiled,  this  man,  very  much  used  to 
having  people  at  his  feet.  What  then  ?  I 
also  am  used  to  an  enormous  value  being 
put  on  my  amiability.  But  he  is  such  a 
great  artist,  a  being  altogether  above  others. 
He  knows  I  understand  and  adore  his  paint- 
ing. 

I  have  been  to  find  the  wrestlers  in  com- 
pany with  Rosalie.  It  seems  they  do  not 
work  outside  but  indoors,  and  especially  in 
the  evening.  That  alters  everything,  for  I 
do  not  want  to  paint  in  artificial  light,  and 
I  should  not  have  the  interest  of  street 
types. 


108 


MAUPASSANT 


THE  CORRESPONDENCE  WITH 
DE  MAUPASSANT 


"  MoKSiEUR — I  read  you  almost  with  de- 
light. You  adore  the  truths  of  nature,  and 
find  there  a  really  great  poetry,  while  yet 
stirring  us  by  details  of  sentiment  so  pro- 
foundly human  that  we  recognize  ourselves 
in  them  and  love  you  with  an  egoistical 
love.  That  is  a  phrase,  is  it  ?  Be  indul- 
gent ;  it  is  sincere  at  bottom.  It  is  evident 
that  I  should  like  to  say  to  you  exquisite 
and  striking  things.  But  that  is  very  difii- 
cult  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  I  regret 
it  the  more  that  you  are  remarkable  enough 
for  one  to  dream  quite  romantically  of  be- 
coming the  confidante  of  your  fine  spirit,  if 
111 


MAKIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 

indeed  your  spirit  is  beautiful.  If  your 
soul  is  not  beautiful,  and  if  you  do  not  ex- 
press yourself  in  tliese  things,  I  regret  it, 
for  you  in  the  first  place ;  then  I  set  you 
down  as  a  manufacturer  of  literature,  and 
pass  on.  For  a  year  I  have  been  on  the 
point  of  writing  to  you,  but  .  .  .  several 
times  I  believed  I  was  magnifying  you,  and 
that  it  was  not  worth  the  trouble.  Then 
suddenly,  two  days  ago,  I  read  in  the 
Gaidois  that  some  one  had  honoured  you 
with  a  gracious  epistle,  and  that  you  desired 
the  address  of  this  good  person,  so  that  you 
might  reply  to  her,  I  at  once  became  jeal- 
ous ;  your  literary  merits  dazzled  me  afresh  ; 
and  here  I  am. 

Now,  mark  me  well :  I  shall  remain  al- 
ways unknown  (for  good),  and  I  do  not 
even  wish  to  see  you  ;  your  head  might  dis- 
please me,  who  knows  ?  I  only  know  that 
you  are  young  and  that  you  are  not  married, 

two  essential  points.     But  I  warn  you  that 
112 


THE  LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 

I  am  charming;  this  sweet  thought  will 
encourage  you  to  reply  to  me.  It  seems  to 
me  that  if  I  were  a  man  I  should  not  de- 
sire even  epistolary  communication  with  a 
slovenly  old  Englishwoman,  .  .  .  whatever 
might  be  thought  by — 

"  Miss   Hastings." 

R.  G.  D. , 

Bureau  de  la  Madeleine. 


113 


MARIE   BASIIKIRTSEFF 


II 

Maupassant  replied  from  Cannes : — 

"  Madame — My  letter  assuredly  will  not 
do  what  you  expect.  I  wish  at  the  outset 
to  thank  you  for  your  kinduess  toward  me 
and  your  compliments.  Then  let  us  talk 
like  reasonable  people. 

"You  ask  to  be  my  confidante?  By 
what  right?  I  do  not  know  you  at  all. 
AVhy  should  I  say  to  you — an  unknown 
person,  whose  mind,  inclinations,  and  so 
on,  may  not  accord  with  my  intellectual 
temperament — what  I  might  say  verbally, 
in  intimacy,  to  the  women  who  are  my 
friends  ?  Would  not  that  be  the  act  of  an 
imbecile,  of  an  inconstant  friend  ? 

"  What  can  mystery  add  to  the  charm  of 

relationship  by  letters  ? 

"  Does  not  all  the  sweetness  of  affection 
114 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS   OF 

between  man  and  woman  (I  mean  cliaste 
affection)  come  especially  from  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  each  other,  of  talking  face  to  face, 
and  of  catching  again  in  thought,  as  one 
writes  to  one's  friend,  the  lines  of  her  face 
floating  between  one's  eyes  and  the  paper  ? 

"  How  can  one  even  write  those  inti- 
mate things,  one's  inner  self,  to  a  being 
whose  physical  form,  the  colour  of  whose 
hair,  whose  smile  and  look,  one  does  not 
know  ?    .    .    . 

"  AVhat  interest  should  I  have  in  telling 
to  you '  I  have  done  this,  I  have  done  that,' 
knowing  that  that  will  only  give  a  picture 
of  uninteresting  things,  since  you  do  not 
know  me  at  all  ? 

"  You  refer  to  a  letter  that  I  lately  re- 
ceived ;  it  was  from  a  man  who  asked  for 
advice.     That  is  all. 

"  I  come  back  to  the  letters  of  unknown 
persons.  In  the  last  two  years  I  have  re- 
ceived about  fifty  or  sixty  of  them.  How 
115 


MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


shall  I  choose  among  these  women  the  con- 
fidante of  my  soul,  as  you  say  ?  When 
they  are  willing  to  show  themselves  and 
make  acquaintance  as  in  the  world  of  sim- 
ple bourgeois,  relations  of  friendship  and 
confidence  can  be  established ;  if  not,  Avhy 
neglect  the  charming  friends  one  knows 
for  a  friend  who  may  be  charming,  but  is 
unknown ;  or  who  may  be  disagreeable, 
whether  to  our  eyes  or  our  thought  ?  All 
this  is  not  very  gallant,  is  it  ?  But  if  I 
threw  myself  at  your  feet,  could  you  be- 
lieve me  faithful  in  my  moral  affections  ? 

"  Pardon   me,  madam,  for  these  reason- 
ings of  a  man  more  practical  than  poetical ; 
and  believe  me,  your  grateful  and  devoted, 
"  Guy  de  Maupassant." 

"Excuse  the  erasures  in  my  letter.  I 
cannot  write  without  making  them,  and  I 
have  not  time  to  recopy." 

116 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 


III 

In  reply  Marie  wrote  : — 

"  Your  letter,  sir,  does  not  surprise  me ; 
I  should  not  expect  what  you  seem  to  sup- 
pose. But  I  did  not  at  first  ask  to  be  your 
confidante — that  would  be  a  little  too  silly; 
and  if  you  have  time  to  re-read  my  letter 
you  will  see  that  you  have  not  deigned  to 
note  the  ironical  and  irreverent  tone  that  I 
employed.  You  indicate  the  sex  of  your 
other  correspondent.  I  thank  you  for  re- 
assuring me,  but,  my  jealousy  being  purely 
spiritual,  that  matters  little.  To  answer 
me  by  confidences  would  be  the  act  of  a 
scatter-brain,  seeing  that  you  do  not  know 
me,  would  it  ?  Would  it  abuse  your  sen- 
sibility, sir,  to  tell  you  unreservedly  of  the 
death  of  Henry  IV? 

117 


MAEIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


"  To  reply  by  confidences,  since  you  have 
understood  that  I  asked  them  from  you  by 
return  of  post,  would  be  to  ridicule  me 
"svittily,  and  if  I  had  been  in  your  place, 
I  should  have  done  it.  I  am  sometimes 
very  merry,  while  I  am  also  often  sad 
enough  to  dream  of  sharing  confidences  by 
letter  with  an  unknown  philosopher,  and 
getting  your  impressions  on  the  Carnival. 

Altogether    good  and   profoundly   felt, 

this  sketch,  the  two  columns  of  which  I 

read  three  times;  but,  in  revenge,  what  an 

old  story  is  that   of  the  old  mother  who 

revenges  herself  on  the  Prussians.     (That 

must  have  been  the  time  when  you  read 

my  letter.)     As  to  the  charm  that  mystery 

may  add,  all  depends  on   one's  taste.     It 

does  not  amuse  you.     All  right,  but  me  it 

amuses  madly.     I  confess  it  in  all  sincerity, 

as  I  do  the  infantine  joy  caused  by  your 

letter,  such  as  it  is.  .  .  .  AYell,  if  that  does 

not  amuse  you  it  is  because  none  of  your  cor- 
ns 


THE  LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 

respondents  lias  been  able  to  interest  you  ; 
that  is  all,  and  if  I  no  more  than  the  others 
have  been  able  to  strike  the  right  note,  I 
am  too  sensible  to  bear  you  a  grudge.  No 
more  than  sixty  ?  I  should  have  thought 
you  would  be  more  plagued.  Have  you 
replied  to  them  all?  .  .  .  My  intellectual 
temperament  cannot  suit  you.  You  would 
be  very  hard  to  please.  In  fact,  I  seem  to 
think  that  I  know  you  (that  is  the  effect 
novelists  produce  on  silly  little  women). 

Still,  you  must  be  right.  As  I  write  to 
you  with  the  greatest  frankness  (result  of 
the  sentiment  above  indicated),  it  may  be 
that  I  have  the  air  of  a  sentimental  young 
person,  or  even  of  an  adventuress.  That 
would  be  very  vexing.  Do  not  excuse 
yourself,  then,  for  your  lack  of  poetry,  gal- 
lantry, etc.  Decidedly,  my  letter  was 
foolish.  .  .  .  Shall  we  then  to  my  very 
lively  regret,  let  the  matter  rest  here  ?     At 

least  let  me  express  the  wish  to  prove  to 
H9 


MAKIE   BASHKIRTSEFF 


you  some  da}^  that  I  did  not  deserve  to  be 
treated  as  No.  61.  As  for  your  reasoning, 
it  is  good,  but  partly  unjust.  I  pardon 
you  for  it,  and  the  erasures,  and  the  old 
woman,  and  the  Prussians.  Be  happy !  !  ! 
However,  if  a  vague  description  only  is 
necessary  to  draw  to  me  the  beauties  of 
your  worn-out  soul,  one  might  say,  for  in- 
stance :  fair  hair,  middle  height,  born  be- 
tween the  year  1812  and  the  year  1863. .  .  . 
And  the  moral.  ...  I  should  have  the 
appearance  of  boasting,  and  you  would 
learn  at  once  that  I  am  from  Marseilles. 

"  P.  S. — Pardon  me  the  blots  and  era- 
sures, etc.  But  I  have  re-copied  it  already 
three  times." 


120 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS  OF 


IV 

"  Cannes,  I  Rue  du  Redon. 

"  Yes,  madame,  a  second  letter  !  It  sur- 
prises me.  I  feel,  perhaps,  a  vague  desire 
to  utter  impertinences.  That  is  permissi- 
ble, because  I  do  not  know  you  ;  and  it  is 
just  as  well  I  do  not.  I  write  to  you 
because  I  am  abominably  bored. 

"  You  reproach  me  for  having  used  a 
threadbare  theme  with  regard  to  the  old 
woman  and  the  Prussians.  But  everything 
is  threadbare ;  I  do  nothing  else ;  I  hear 
nothing  else  ;  all  the  ideas,  all  the  phrases, 
all  the  discussions,  all  the  creeds  are  com- 
monplace. 

"  Is  it  not  one,  and  an  extreme  one  and 

a  puerile,  to  write  to  an  unknown  person  ? 

"In  brief,  at    heart  I  am  a  simpleton. 
131 


MAKIE  BASIIKIRTSEFF 


You  understand  me,  more  or  less.  You 
know  what  you  are  doing  and  to  whom 
you  are  addressing  yourself;  you  have 
been  told  this  or  that  about  me,  good  or 
bad;  it  matters  little.  .  .  .  Even  if  you 
should  not  have  met  any  of  my  relatives, 
\Aio  are  numerous,  you  have  read  articles 
in  the  papers  of  mine — physical  and  moral 
portraits;  in  short,  you  amuse  yourself, 
very  sure  of  Avhat  you  do.  But  I  ?  You 
may  be,  it  is  true,  a  young  and  charming 
woman,  whose  hands  I  shall  be  happy  one 
day  to  kiss.  But  you  may  be  also  an  old 
housekeeper,  nurtured  on  the  novels  of 
Eugene  Sue.  You  may  be  a  young  woman 
of  literary  society,  and  hard  and  dry  as  a 
mattress.  In  fact,  are  you  thin  ?  Xot  too 
much  so,  eh?  I  should  be  distressed  to 
have  a  thin  correspondent.  I  distrust  my- 
self altogether  with  the  unknown. 

"  I  have  been  caught  in  I'idiculous  traps. 
A  boarding  school  of  young  girls  carried 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS   OF 

on  a  correspondence  with  me  by  the  pen 
of  an  assistant  mistress.  They  passed  my 
replies  from  hand  to  hand  in  class.  The 
trick  was  droll,  and  made  me  laugh  when 
I  heard  of  it — from  the  mistress  herself. 

"  Are  you  worldly  ?  or  sentimental  ?  or 
simply  romantic  ?  or,  again,  merely  a 
woman  who  is  bored,  and  who  wants  dis- 
traction ?  I,  see  you,  am  not  the  man  you 
seek. 

"  I  have  not  a  halfp'orth  of  poetry.  I 
take  everything  with  indifference,  and  I 
pass  two-thirds  of  my  time  in  profound 
boredom.  I  occupy  the  third  in  writing 
lines  that  I  sell  as  dear  as  possible,  dis- 
tressing myself  at  being  obliged  to  ply  this 
abominable  trade  which  has  brought  me 
the  honour  of  being  distinguished — morally 
— by  you.  Here  are  confidences — what  do 
you  say  of  them,  madame  ?  You  must 
find  me  very  unceremonious.     Pardon  me. 

It  seems  to  me  in  writing  to  you  that  I  am 
123 


MARIE   BASIIKIRTSEFF 


walldno;  in  subterranean  darkness  with  the 
fear  of  holes  before  my  feet ;  and  I  strike 
my  stick  on  the  ground  at  hazard,  to  sound 
it. 

"  What  perfume  do  you  use  ? 

"  Are  you  a  gourmande  ? 

"  AVhat  sort  of  an  ear  have  you  ? 

"  The  colour  of  your  eyes  ? 

"  A  musician  ? 

"  I  do  not  ask  if  you  are  married.  If  you 
are,  you  wall  reply  '  No.'  If  you  are  not 
you  will  reply  '  Yes.' 

"  1  kiss  your  hands,  madame. 

"  Guy  de  Maupassant." 


124 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS   OF 


"  You  bore  yourself  abominably  !  Ah  ! 
Cruel  !  !  It  is  to  leave  no  illusion  upon 
the  motive  to  which  I  owe  your  honoured 
.  .  .  which,  by  the  bye,  arriving  at  a  propi- 
tious moment,  charmed  me.  It  is  true 
that  I  amuse  myself,  but  it  is  not  true  that 
I  know  you  as  much  as  that ;  I  swear  to 
you  that  I  am  ignorant  of  your  colour  and 
your  size,  and  that,  in  your  private  capacity, 
I  only  catch  a  glimpse  of  you  in  the  lines 
with  which  you  gratify  me,  and  still  across 
not  a  little  malice  and  posturing. 

"  Well,  for  a  weighty  naturalistic  writer 

you  are  not  stupid,  and  my  answer  would 

be  a  world  if  I  were  not  burdened  with 

self-respect.     It  is  not  necessary  to  let  you 

believe  that  all  my  energy  passes  that  way. 
125 


MARIE   BASHKIRTSEFF 


"  We  will,  at  the  outset,  settle  accounts 
over  the  commonplace,  if  you  please.  It 
will  be  rather  a  long  task,  for  you  over- 
whelm me  with  it,  do  you  know  !  You  are 
right  ...  on  the  whole.  But  Art  just 
consists  in  makins:  us  swallow  the  common- 
places  by  charming  us  eternally,  as  Nature 
does  with  her  eternal  sun,  and  her  olden 
earth,  and  her  men  built  all  on  the  same 
pattern  and  animated  ])y  pretty  much  the 
same  sentiments.  But  .  .  .  there  are  musi- 
cians who  have  only  a  few  notes,  and 
painters  who  have  but  a  few  colours.  .  .  . 

"However,  you  know  it  better  than  I  do, 
and  you  wish  to  make  me  grant  it.  .  .  . 

"  Threadbare,  indeed  !  The  mother  and 
the  Prussians  in  literature,  and  Joan  of  Arc 
in  painting  !  Are  you  quite  sure  that  a 
malicious  person  (is  it  indeed  that?)  will 
not  find  a  new  and  moving  aspect  of  it  ? 

"  And  these  other  commonplaces  of  your 

painful  metier  !     You  take  me  for  a  hour- 
126 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS   OF 

geoise  who  takes  you  for  a  poet,  and  you 
seek  to  enlighten  me.  George  Sand  has 
already  boasted  of  writing  for  money,  and 
the  laborious  Flaubert  has  whined  over  his 
extreme  labours.  Goto!  the  harm  that  he 
did  himself  is  felt.  Balzac  never  complained 
like  this,  and  he  was  always  enthusiastic 
about  what  he  was  going  to  do.  As  for 
Montesquieu — if  I  dare  express  myself  thus 
— his  taste  for  study  was  so  lively  that,  if  it 
was  the  source  of  his  glory,  it  was  also  that 
of  his  happiness — as  the  under-mistress  of 
your  fantastic  boarding-school  might  say. 

"  To  sell  dear  is  very  good,  for  there  has 
never  been  really  brilliant  glory  without 
gold,  as  says  the  Jew  Baahron,  a  contem- 
porary of  Job  (fragments  preserved  by  the 
learned  Spitzbube  of  Berlin).  For  the  rest, 
everything  gains  by  being  well  framed — 
beauty,  genius,  and  even  faith.  Did  not 
God    come    in    person    to  explain  to  His 

servant  Moses  the  ornamentation  of  His  ark, 
127 


MARIE   BASIIKIRTSEFF 

recommeudino;  that  the  cherubims  which 
were  to  flank  it  should  be  of  gold  and  of 
exquisite  workmanship  ?  .  .  . 

"There,  in  the  same  way  you  bore  your. 
self,  and  you  take  everything  with  indiffer- 
ence, and  you  have  not  a  ha'porth  of  poetry ! 
If  you  think  to  frighten  me  !  .  .  . 

"  Now  I  see  you  :  you  must  have  a  very 
big  figure,  a  fairly  big  paunch,  a  short 
waistcoat  of  doubtful  stuff,  with  the  last 
button  loose.  Ah,  well !  you  interest  me 
all  the  same.  Only,  I  do  not  understand 
how  you  can  be  bored.  I  am  myself  some- 
times sad,  discouraged,  or  angry ;  but  bored 
— never  ! 

"  You  are  not  the  man  I  seek  ?  Misfor- 
tune !  (there  speaks  your  '  housekeeper '). 

"  You  would  be  very  kind  if  you  would 
show  me  how  that  is  done.  I  seek  no  one, 
sir;  and  I  think  that  men  should  only  be 
the  accessories  of  the  strong  women  (the 

dry  old  girl).     At  last,  I  will  reply  to  your 

128 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS  OF 


questions,  and  with  great  sincerity,  for  I  do 
not  like  to  play  with  the  innocence  of  a 
man  of  genius  who  dozes  after  dinner  over 
his  cigar. 

"  Thin  ?  Oh,  no  ;  but  neither  am  I  stout. 
Worldly,  sentimental,  romantic?  But  how 
do  you  mean  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  there 
is  room  for  all  that  in  the  same  indi- 
vidual. All  depends  on  the  moment,  the 
occasion,  the  circumstances.  I  am  an  op- 
portunist, and,  above  all,  a  victim  of  moral 
contagions ;  so  it  may  happen  to  me  to 
become  unroraantic  like  you. 

"  My  perfume  ?  That  of  virtue.  Vulgo, 
none.  A  gourmande?  Yes,  or,  rather, 
hard  to  please.  My  ear  is  small,  irregular, 
but  pretty.  Eyes  grey.  Yes,  a  musician  ; 
but  not  as  good  a  pianist  as  your  under- 
mistress  should  be.  If  I  were  not  married, 
could  I  read  your  abominable  books  ? 

"  Are   you    satisfied  with  my  docility  ? 

If  so,  loose  another   button  and  think  of 
9  129 


MArtlE   BASIIKIRTSEFF 


me  as  the  twilight  falls.  If  not  ...  so 
much  the  worse  !  I  fiud  there  compensa- 
tion for  your  false  confidences. 

"Should  I   dare  to  ask  who  are   your 
musicians  and  your  painters  ? 

"  And  what  if  I  were  a  man  ?  " 
[To   the   above   letter   is   appended   a 
sketch  of  a  stout  gentleman  dozing  on  a 
bencli  under  a  palm  at  the  seaside,  a  table, 
a  glass  of  beer,  a  cigar.] 


130 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 


VI 

"  3rd  April  1884. 

"  Madame — I  have  just  spent  a  fortnight 
in  Paris,  and  as  I  left  in  Cannes  the  cabal- 
istic indications  needed  for  my  letters  to 
reach  you,  I  could  not  reply  sooner. 

"  And  then,  do  you  know,  madame,  you 
have  quite  frightened  me.  You  quote,  one 
on  top  of  another,  without  warning  me,  G. 
Sand,  Flaubert,  Balzac,  Montesquieu,  the 
Jew  Baahron,  Job,  the  savant  Spitzbube  of 
Berlin,  and  Moses. 

"  Oh,  now  I  know  you,  my  nice  mummer ! 

You   are  a  professor  of   the  sixth  in   the 

Louis-le-Grand   College.     I  confess  that  I 

rather  suspected  it,  your  paper  having  a 

vague  odour  of  snuff.     Then  I  am  going 

to  cease  to  be  gallant  (was  I  so  ?)  and  I  am 
131 


MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


going  to  treat  you  as  of  the  University, 
that  is,  as  an  enemy.  Ah,  sly  old  man,  old 
usher,  old  grubber  at  Latin,  yo  uwanted 
to  pass  yourself  off  for  a  pretty  woman ! 
And  you  sent  me  your  essays,  a  manuscript 
dealing  with  Art  and  Nature,  to  present  it 
to  some  magazine,  and  to  speak  of  it  in 
some  article ! 

"What  luck  that  I  had  not  given  you 
notice  of  my  visit  to  Paris.  I  should  have 
seen  you  come  in,  one  morning — a  shabby 
old  man  who  would  have  put  his  hat  on 
the  ground  in  order  to  pull  out  of  his 
pocket  a  roll  of  paper  tied  up  with  a  string. 
And  he  would  have  said  to  me,  '  Monsieur, 
I  am  the  lady  who  .  .  . ' 

"  Ah,  well.  Sir  Professor,  I  am,  neverthe- 
less, going  to  answer  some  of  your  ques- 
tions. I  begin  by  thanking  you  for  the 
pleasant  details  that  you  give  me  of  your 
physique  and  your  tastes.      I  thank  you 

equally   for   the   portrait   that   you   have 
132 


^    THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS   OF 

drawn  of  myself.  It  is  a  likeness,  my 
faith  !     I  notice  some  errors,  however. 

"1°,  Less  paunch. 

"2°.  I  never  smoke. 

"3°.  I  drink  neither  beer,  nor  wine,  nor 
alcohol.     Nothing  but  water. 

"  Then  the  beatitude  before  the  '  bock '  is 
not  exactly  my  favourite  posture.  I  more 
often  squat  in  Eastern  fashion  on  a  divan. 

"You  ask  me  who  is  my  painter. 
Among  the  moderns,  Millet.  My  musi- 
cians ?     I  have  a  horror  of  music. 

"  In  truth,  I  prefer  a  pretty  woman  to 

all  the  arts.     I  put  a  good  dinner,  a  real 

dinner,  the  rare  dinner,  almost  in  the  same 

rank  with  a  pretty  woman.     There  is  my 

profession  of  faith,  my  dear  old  professor  ! 

I  think  that  when  one  has  a  good  passion, 

a  capital   passion,  one   must   give   it  full 

swing,  must  sacrifice  all  the  others  to  it. 

That  is  what  I  do.     I  had  two  passions. 

It  was  necessary  to  sacrifice  one — I  have  to 
133 


MARIE   BASHKIRTSEFF 

some  extent  sacrificed  gluttony.  I  have 
become  as  sober  as  a  camel,  but  nice  in  no 
longer  knowing  what  to  eat. 

"  Do  you  want  yet  another  detail  ?  I 
have  the  passion  for  violent  exercise.  I 
have  won  big  stakes  as  a  rower,  a  swimmer, 
and  a  walker. 

"  Now  that  I  have  given  you  all  these 
confidences,  Sir  Usher,  tell  me  of  your- 
self, of  your  wife  since  you  are  married, 
of  your  children.  Have  you  a  daughter  ? 
If  so,  think  of  me,  I  beseech  you. 

"I  pray  the  divine  Homer  to  ask  for 
you,  from  the  God  whom  you  adore,  all  the 
blessings  of  the  earth. 

"  Guy  de  Maupassant." 


134 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 


VII 

Mdlle.  Bashkirtseff's  answer  was 
signed  "Savantin,  Joseph." 

"  Unliappy  Zolist !  this  is  delicious. 
If  Heaven  were  just,  you  would  share  my 
opinion.  It  seems  to  me  that  not  only  is 
it  very  amusing,  but  that  there  might  be 
in  it  delicate  enjoyment,  really  interesting 
things,  if  only  one  were  absolutely  sincere. 
For,  indeed,  where  is  the  friend,  man  or 
woman,  with  whom  there  is  not  some  re- 
serve to  make,  some  discretion  to  maintain  ? 
While  with  abstract  beings 

"  Not  to  be  of  any  country,  of  any  world, 
to  be  true  !  One  would  reach  the  large- 
ness of  expression  of  Shakespeare.  .  .  . 

"  But  enough  of  mystification  like  that. 

Since  you  know  all,  I  will  no  longer  hide 
135 


MAKIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


anything  from  you.  Yes,  sir,  I  have  the 
honour  to  be  a  schoolmaster,  as  you  say ; 
and  I  am  going  to  prove  it  to  you  by 
eight  pages  of  admonitions.  Too  sly  to 
bring  MSS.  with  ostensible  string,  I  will 
make  you  relish  my  teaching  in  little  doses. 

"  I  have  profited,  sir,  by  the  leisure  of 
Holy  AVeek  to  re-read  your  complete 
works.  You  are  a  gay  dog,  iucontestably. 
I  had  never  read  you  en  hloc  and  right  off. 
The  impression  is,  therefore,  almost  fresh, 
and  that  imj^ression.  ...  It  is  enough  to 
turn  all  my  pupils  inside  out  and  to  upset 
all  the  convents  of  Christendom. 

As  for  myself,  who  am  not  at  all  bash- 
ful, I  am  confounded — yes,  sir,  confounded 
— by  this  intense  preoccupation  of  yours 
with  the  sentiment  that  M.  Alexandre 
Dumas  ills  names  Love.  It  will  become  a 
monomania,  and  that  would  be  regrettable, 
for  you  are  richly  dowered,  and  your  peas- 
ant tales  are  well  sketched.  I  know  that 
136 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS   OF 

you  have  done  Une  Vie,  and  that  this 
book  is  stamped  with  a  great  feeling  of 
disgust,  sadness,  and  discouragement.  This 
feeling,  which  leads  one  to  pardon  the 
other  things,  appeared  from  time  to  time 
in  your  writings,  and  leads  people  to  be- 

1  The  following  sentences  from  Vernon  Lee's  Bald- 
win  are  opposite  :  "  I  am  sorry  that  this  Dorothy  should 
have  been  reading  Une  Fie,"  said  Marcel;  "the  book 
is  perhaps  the  finest  novel  that  any  of  our  younger 
Frenchmen  have  produced.  But  I  shrink  from  the 
thought  of  the  impression  which  it  must  have  made 
upon  tliis  young  girl,  so  frank  and  fearless,  but  at  the 
same  time  so  pure  and  sensitive."  "  I  have  no  doubt 
that  my  cousin  felt  very  sick  after  reading  it,"  said 
Baldwin,  coldly  ;  "  .  .  ,  but  what  I  feel  sorry  about  is 
not  that  an  English  girl  should  read  the  book,  but  that 
a  Frenchman,  or  rather  the  majority  of  the  French 
people,  could  write  it.  ...  I  said  that  the  English 
novel  is  pernicious  because  it  permits  people,  or  rather 
let  us  say  women,  to  live  on  in  the  midst  of  a  partial 
and  therefore  falsified  notion  of  life.  I  objected  that  a 
novel  like  Maupassant's  gave  a  false  impression  of  life 
because  it  presented  as  a  literary  work — that  is  to  say, 
as  something  which  we  instinctively  accept  as  a  gener- 
alisation, as  a  lesson — what  is  in  truth  a  mere  accident- 
al, exceptional  heaping  up  of  revolting  facts  ;  .  .  . 
and  still  more  because  it  dragged  the  imagination  over 
physical  details  with  which  the  imagination  has  no 
legitimate  connection,  which  can  only  enervate,  soil, 
and  corrupt  it." 

137 


MARIE   BASIIKIRTSEFF 


lieve  that  you  are  a  superior  being  who 
suffers  from  life.  It  is  this  that  cuts  me 
to  the  heart.  But  this  whining  is,  I  fear, 
only  an  echo  of  Flaubert. 

"  In  fact,  we  are  brave  simpletons,  and 
you  are  a  good  farceur  (do  you  see  the 
advantage  of  not  knowing  one  another  ?) 
with  your  solitude  and  your  beings  with 
long  hair.  .  .  .  Love — it  is  still  with  that 
word  that  one  gets  hold  of  the  whole 
world.  Oh,  la  !  la  !  Gil  Bias,  where  art 
thou  ?  It  was  after  reading  one  of  your 
articles  that  I  rea,(l  the  Attuqua  du  Moulin. 
It  was  like  entering  a  magnificent  and 
fragrant  forest  where  birds  sang.  '  Never 
did  larger  peace  fall  upon  a  happier  spot.' 
This  masterly  phrase  recalls  the  few  fa- 
mous measures  in  the  last  act  of  the 
Africaine. 

"■  But  you  abhor  music.     Is  it  possible  ? 

They   have    deceived    you    with    learned 

music.     Happily    your    book    is   not   yet 
138 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS  OF 

done,  the  book  in  which  there  will  be  a 
woman — yes,  sir,  a  character^  and  no  vio- 
lent exercises.  Coming  in  first  in  a  race, 
you  are  but  the  equal  of  a  horse,  and,  ho^v- 
ever  noble  that  animal  may  be,  it  is  still  an 
animal,  young  man.  Permit  an  old  Latinist 
to  recommend  the  passage  to  you  in  which 
Sallust  says  :  Omnes  homines  qui  sese  stu- 
dent ^raestavi^  etc.  I  shall  set  it  also  to 
my  daughter  Anastasie  to  work  at.  One 
does  not  know,  perhaps  you  will  re- 
form  

"  The  table,  women  !  But,  young  friend, 
take  care.  This  leads  to  doubtful  talk, 
and  my  character  of  schoolmaster  forbids 
me  to  follow  you  on  to  such  dangerous 
ground. 

"  No  music,  no  tobacco  ?     The  devil  ! 

Millet  is  good,  but  you  say  Millet  as  the 

bourgeois    says   Rafael.     I  advise  you   to 

look   at  a  young   modern  called  Bastien- 

Lepage.     Go  to  Bue  de  Seze. 
i39 


MARIE  BASIIKIRTSEFF 


What  age  are  you,  really  ?  Do  you 
seriously  pretend  that  you  prefer  pretty 
women  to  all  the  arts  ?  You  are  chaffing 
me. 

"Pardon  the  incoherence  of  this  frag- 
ment, and  do  not  leave  me  long  without  a 
letter. 

"  Here,  great  devourer  of  women,  I  wish 
you — and  am,  in  holy  terror,  your  obedient 
servant, 

"  Savantin  Joseph." 


no 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS  OF 


VIII 

"  83  Rue  Dulong. 

"  My  dear  Joseph — The  moral  of  your 
letter  is  this,  is  it  not  ? — since  we  do  not 
know  each  other  at  all,  let  us  not  stand 
upon  ceremony,  but  speak  freely  to  one  an- 
other face  to  face,  like  two  gossips. 

"  So  I  am  even  going  to  give  you  an  ex- 
ample of  complete  abandon.  At  the  point 
at  which  we  are,  we  can  chat  with  each 
other  nicely,  can  we  not  ?  Then  I  talk  to 
you,  and  if  you  are  not  satisfied,  chut ! 
Address  Victor  Hugo  and  he  will  call  you 
'  Dear  Poet'  Do  you  know  that,  for  an 
usher,  to  whom  are  intrusted  young  inno- 
cents, you  tell  me  rather  stiff  things? 
What,  you  are  not  bashful  at  all  ?     Neither 

in  your  lectui'es,  nor  in  your  writings,  nor 
141 


MAEIE   BASHKIKTSEFF 


in  your  words,  nor  in  your  actions  ?  Heiii ! 
I  am  doubtful  about  it. 

"  And  you  believe  that  something  amuses 
me  !  And  that  I  make  game  of  the  public  ! 
My  poor  Joseph,  there  is  not  under  the  sun 
a  man  more  bored  than  I.  Nothing  ap- 
pears to  me  worth  the  trouble  of  an  effort 
or  the  fatigue  of  a  movement.  I  bore  my- 
self ceaselessly,  without  rest  and  without 
hope,  because  I  desire  nothing,  I  expect 
nothing — so  far  from  weeping  over  things 
I  cannot  alter — or  expect  only  from  them 
that  I  shall  be  helplessly  imbecile.  So, 
since  we  are  frank  with  one  another,  I  warn 
you  that  this  is  my  last  letter,  for  I  begin 
to  have  enough  of  it. 

"  Why  should  I  continue  to  write  to  you  ? 
It  does  not  amuse  me  ;  it  cannot  give  me 
any  pleasure  in  the  future. 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  know  you.  I  am 
sure  you  are  ugly  ;  and  I  find  I  have  sent 
you  enough  autographs  as  it  is.     Do  you 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS   OF 


know  they  are  ^vorth  ten  to  twenty  sous 
apiece,  according  to  the  contents  ?  You 
would  have  at  least  two  worth  twenty 
sous.  .  .  . 

"  And  again,  I  really  think  that  I  shall 
once  more  leave  Paris.  I  am  decidedly 
duller  there  than  elsewhere.  I  shall  go  to 
Etretat  for  a  change,  seizing  the  moment 
when  I  can  be  alone  there. 

"  I  like  to  be  alone  immoderately.  Then, 
at  least  I  am  bored  without  speaking. 

"  You  ask  my  exact  age.  Being  born 
on  the  5th  of  August  1850,  I  am  not  yet 
thirty-four  years  old.  Are  you  satisfied  ? 
Are  you  going  to  beg  my  photograph  now  ? 
I  warn  you  I  shall  not  send  it  you. 

"  Yes,  I  like  pretty  women  ;  but  there 
are  days  when  I  am  utterly  disgusted  with 
them. 

"  Adieu,  my  old  Joseph.  Our  acquaint- 
ance will  have  been  very  incomplete,  very 

short.     What  would  you  have  ?     It  is  per- 
143 


MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


haps  better   that   we   do  not   know   each 
other's  phiz. 

"  Give  me  thy  hand  that  I  may  shake  it 
cordially  in  sending  a  last  remembrance. 
"  Guy  de  Maupassant.  " 

"  Thou  canst  now  give  serious  informa- 
tion about  me  to  those  who  ask  for  it. 
Thanks  to  the  mystery,  I  am  delivered. 
Adieu,  Joseph ! " 


144 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 


IX 


"Your  letter  is  too  good.  There  was 
no  need  of  so  much  perfume  that  I  might 
be  stifled  by  it.  So  this  is  what  you  found 
to  reply  to  a  woman  culpable  at  most  of 
imprudence  !     Pretty  ! 

"  Doubtless  Joseph  was  all  wrong  ;  it  is 
just  for  that  reason  he  is  so  vexed.  But 
he  had  his  head  full  of  all  the  .  .  .  levities 
of  your  books,  like  a  refrain  that  one  can- 
not get  rid  of.  However,  I  blame  him 
severely,  for  one  must  be  sure  of  the  cour- 
tesy of  one's  adversary  before  risking  pleas- 
antries like  his. 

"  Nevertheless,  you  could,  I  think,  have 
humbled  him  with  more  wit. 

"Now  I  am  going  to  tell  you  an  incred- 
ible thing,  one  that  you  -will  never  believe, 

and  that,  coming  too  late,  has  only  an  his- 
lo  145 


MARIE   BASHKIETSEFF 


torical  value.  Ah  well,  it  is  that  I,  I  also 
have  had  enough  of  it.  At  your  fifth  letter 
I  was  chilled.  .  .  .  Satiety  ?  .  .  . 

"  However,  I  only  cling  to  that  which 
escapes  me.  I  must  then  hold  you  now  ? 
Almost. 

"  AVhy  did  I  write  to  you  ?  One  wakes 
up  one  fine  morning  to  find  that  one  is  a 
rare  being  surrounded  by  imbeciles,  and 
groans  to  see  so  many  pearls  thrown  to  so 
many  swine. 

"  If  I  had  written  to  a  celebrated  man, 
one  worthy  of  understanding  me  ?  It 
would  be  charming,  romantic ;  and  who 
knows  but,  after  a  number  of  letters,  this 
misfht  be  a  friend,  won  in  unusual  circum- 
stances.  Then  one  asks  oneself.  Who  ? 
And  the  choice  falls  on  3'ou. 

"  Such  correspondence  is  possible  only  on 
two  conditions.  The  first  is  boundless  ad- 
miration   on   the    part    of    the   unknown. 

From  boundless  admiration  is  born  a  cur- 
146 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS   OF 

rent  of  sympathy  which  makes  her  say 
things  that  infallibly  touch  and  interest 
the  celebrated  man. 

"None  of  these  conditions  exist.  I 
chose  you  with  the  hope  of  admiring  you 
boundlessly  later  on  !  For,  as  I  thought, 
you  were  very  young,  comparatively. 

"  I  wrote  you  therefore  coolly,  and  I 
have  ended  by  telling  you  some  unbecom- 
ing and  even  discourteous  things,  while  I 
admit  that  you  have  vouchsafed  to  notice 
them.  At  the  point  where  we  are,  as  you 
say,  I  may  confess  that  your  infamous  letter 
has  made  me  pass  a  very  bad  day. 

"  I  am  ruffled  as  though  the  offence  were 
real.     It  is  absurd. 

"Adieu,  with  pleasure. 

"  If  you  have  them  still,  return  me  my 
autographs;  as  for  yours,  I  have  already 
sold  them  in  America  at  an  insane  price." 


147 


MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 


X. 

"  Etretat,  22nd  April. 

"Madame — So  I  have  deeply  wounded 
you.  Do  not  deny  it.  I  am  charmed  at  it, 
and  I  beg  your  pardon  for  it  very  humbly. 

"  I  asked  myself,  Who  is  she  ?  She 
wrote  me  at  the  outset  a  sentimental 
letter,  the  letter  of  a  dreamer,  an  enthu- 
siast. It  is  a  pose  common  among  girls ; 
is  she  a  girl  ?     Many  iaconnues  are  girls. 

"  Then,  madame,  I  replied  in  a  sceptical 
tone.  You  were  quicker  than  I  and  the 
letter  before  your  last  contained  singular 
things.  I  no  longer  knew  at  all  what  sort 
of  person  you  could  be.  I  kept  sapng  to 
myself  all  the  time :  Is  it  a  masked  woman 
who  is  amusing  herself,  or  a  simple  joker  ? 

"You  know  the  regular  way  to  recog- 
nise w^omen  of  the  world  at  the  Opera 
148 


THE   LAST  CONFESSION'S   OF 

ball  ?  One  pinches  them.  The  girls  are 
used  to  that,  and  simply  say,  'Stop  it' 
The  others  get  angry.  I  pinched  you  in 
a  very  improper  way,  I  confess,  and  you 
are  angry.  Kow  I  beg  your  pardon,  all 
the  more  since' a  phrase  in  your  letter  has 
given  me  much  pain.  You  say  that  my 
infamous  reply  (it  is  not  '  infamous  '  that 
has  touched  me)  has  made  you  pass  a  bad 
day. 

"  Madame,  I  leave  you  to  seek  for  the 
subtle  reasons  which  have  afflicted  me  so 
much  at  the  thought  of  having  given  a 
woman  I  did  not  know  an  unhappy  day. 
Pray  believe,  madame,  that  I  am  neither  so 
brutal  nor  so  sceptical  nor  so  improper  as  I 
have  appeared  to  you  to  be.  But  in  spite 
of  mvself  I  have  a  great  distrust  of  all  mys- 
teiy,  of  the  unknown  and  of  unknown 
people. 

"  How  do  you  think  I  could  say  a  sincere 

thing  to  the  person  X  .  .  .  who  writes  to 
119 


MAKIE   BASHKIRTSEFF 


me  anonymously,  who  may  be  an  enemy  (I 
have  them),  or  a  simple  joker  ?  I  mask 
myself  among  masked  people.  It  is  straight 
fio-htino^.  I  have,  however,  come  to  see  a 
bit  of  your  character  by  stratagem. 

"  Again,  pardon ! 

"  I  kiss  the  unknown  hand  that  writes  to 
me. 

"  Your  letters,  madame,  are  at  your  dis- 
posal, but  I  shall  only  deliver  them  into 
your  hands.  Ah,  I  would  make  the  trip 
to  Paris  for  that  purpose. 

"Guy  de  Maupassant." 


150 


THE   LAST   CONFESSIONS   OF 


XL 

"  In  writing  to  you  again  I  am  ruining 
myself  for  ever  in  your  eyes.  But  that  is 
all  the  same  to  me,  and  I  shall  revenge  my- 
self. Oh  !  only  by  telling  you  the  effect 
produced  by  your  ruse  to  discover  my 
character. 

"  I  was  positively  afraid  of  sending  to  the 
post-office,  imagining  all  kinds  of  things. 
That  man  will  close  the  correspondence  by 
...  I  sjjare  your  modesty.  In  opening  the 
envelope  I  waited  so  as  not  to  be  moved. 
All  the  same  I  was  moved,  but  pleasantly, 

"  Before  the  soft  accents  of  a  noble  repentance, 
Must  I  then,  noble  sir,  cease  to  dislike  you  ? 

"Unless   this   should   be   another  ruse: 

'  Flattered  at  being  taken  for  a  woman  of 

the  world,  she   will  act  the  part  for  me, 
151 


MAEIE   BASHKIKTSEFF 


after  having  called  forth  a  human  document. 
Avhicli  I  am  very  glad  to  ilhistrate  like 
that.' 

"  Then  because  I  am  angry  ?  This  is  not 
perhaps  a  conclusive  proof,  my  dear  sir ! 

"  Then  adieu  I  I  want  to  pardon  you,  if 
you  wish  it,  for  I  am  ill,  and  as  that  is  not 
usual,  I  am  full  of  pity  for  myself,  for 
every  one,  for  you.  who  have  managed  to 
be  so  very  disagreeable  to  me.  I  deny  it 
so  much  the  less  that  you  may  think  just 
what  you  like  about  it. 

"  llow  to  prove  to  you  that  I  am  neither 
a  joker  nor  an  enemy  I  And  what's  the 
good  I  Impossible  any  longer  to  swear  to 
you  that  we  were  made  to  undei*staud  each 
other.  You  are  not  on  a  par  with  me.  I 
regret  it.  Nothing  would  have  been  more 
as^reeable  to  me  than  to  recognise  in  you 
all  superiority — in  you  or  in  another. 

"  To  pluck  a  crow  with  you :  your  last 

article  was  interesting,  and  I  should  even 
ib'i 


THE  LAST  COXFESSIOXS   OF 

like,  on  the  subject  of  the  girl,  to  put  a 
question  to  you.     But  .  .  . 

"  A  very  delicate  little  trifle  in  your  letter 
has  set  me  dreaming.  You  are  troubled 
at  having  given  me  pain.  That  is  silly  or 
charming — I  think  charming.  You  may 
laugh  at  me ;  what  do  I  care  for  it  ?  Yes, 
you  had  there  an  attack  of  romanticism  like 
Stendhal,  quite  plainly  ;  but  be  easy,  you 
will  not  die  of  it  this  time. 

"  Good  evening  !  I  understand  your  sus- 
picions. It  is  unlikely  that  a  fashionable, 
young,  and  pretty  woman  would  amuse 
herself  by  writing  to  you  ?  Is  it  that  ? 
But,  monsieur,  how  .  .  .  Come,  come,  I  am 
forgetting  that  all  is  over  between  us." 


153 


MAKIE  BASIIKIKTSEFF 


XII. 

"  83  Rue  Dulong. 

"  Madame — I  have  just  been  spending  a 
fortnight  at  the  seaside,  that  is  why  I  have 
not  replied  sooner.  Now  I  have  returned 
to  Paris  for  several  weeks  before  going 
away  for  the  summer. 

"  Decidedly,  raadame,  you  are  not  pleased, 
and  you  tell  me,  so  as  to  show  your  irrita- 
tion, that  I  am  very  much  inferior  to  you. 
Oh,  madame,  if  you  knew  me,  you  would, 
know  that  I  have  no  pretensions  in  the 
way  of  moral  worth,  or  of  artistic  worth. 
In  fact,  I  laugh  at  the  one  as  at  the 
other. 

Everything  is  much  alike  to  me  in  life 
— men,  women,  and  events.  There  is  my 
true  profession  of  faith,  and  I  may  add, 
what  you  will  not  believe,  that  I  rely  no 

1 64: 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS   OF 

more  on  myself  than  on  others.  Every- 
thing may  be  divided  into  boredom,  farce, 
and  misery. 

"You  say  that  you  ruin  yourself  for 
ever,  in  my  opinion,  by  writing  again. 
Why  so?  You  had  the  rare  sense  to 
confess  that  you  were  wounded  by  my 
letter,  to  confess  it  in  an  irritated,  simple, 
fresh,  and  charming  way  that  touched  and 
moved  me.  I  have  made  my  excuses 
in  telling  you  my  reasons.  You  have  again 
replied  very  prettily  without  disarming, 
showing  kindness  a  little  mixed  still  with 
anger.     What  more  natural  ? 

"  Oh,  I  know  well  that  I  shall  inspire  you 

now   with   utter   distrust.     So   much   the 

worse ;  you  will  not  then  want  us  to  meet. 

One  knows  more  things  about  any  one  in 

hearing  him  speak  for  five  minutes  than  in 

writing  for  ten  years.     How  comes  it  that 

you   do   not   know   any   of   the  people  I 

know,  for  when  I  am  in  Paris  I  go  into 
155 


MAKIE   BASIIKIRTSEFF 


Society  every  evening  ?  You  might  tell  me 
to  go  on  such  a  day  to  such  a  house.  I 
would  go.  If  I  appeared  to  you  very  dis- 
agreeable you  would  not  make  yourself 
known. 

"  But  be  under  no  illusion  as  to  my  person. 
I  am  neither  handsome,  nor  elegant,  nor 
singular.  That,  however,  should  be  all  the 
same  to  you.  Do  you  go  into  Orleanist, 
Bonapartist,  or  Republican  circles?  I 
know  all  three.  Will  you  make  me  take 
up  my  position  in  a  museum,  a  church,  or 
a  street  ?  In  that  case  I  should  put  condi- 
tions so  as  to  be  sure  I  did  not  await  a 
woman  who  did  not  come.  What  do  you 
say  to  an  evening  at  the  theatre,  without 
your  making  yourself  known,  if  you  like  ? 
I  would  tell  you  the  number  of  my  box, 
where  I  should  be  with  friends.  You 
would  not  tell  me  that  of  yours.  And 
you   could  write  to   me  on  the  morrow, 

'  Adieu,  Monsieur  ! ' 

156 


THE  LAST  CONFESSIONS 

"Am  I  not  more  magnanimous  than  the 
French  Guards  at  Fontenoy  ? 
"  I  kiss  your  hands,  Madame, 

"  Maupassaiit." 


THE  END. 


157 


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